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in 2011 with funding from 
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ON THE EDGE OF 
THE WAR ZONE 

From the Battle of the Marne 

to the Entrance of the 

Stars and Stripes 

BY 

MILDRED ALDRICH 

AUTHOR OF "A HILLTOP ON THE MARNE " 
"TOLD IN A FRENCH GARDEN" 




BOSTON 
SMALL, MAYNARD AND COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 



Vh 






Copyright, iqi? 
By Mildred Aldrich 

Third printing before publication 



SEP 22 1917 

THE UNIVERSITY PRESS, CAMBRIDGE, U.S.A. 

©CLA476205 



TO 
THE PUBLIC 

THE FRIENDS, OLD AND NEW, WHOSE PERSISTENT 
AND SYMPATHETIC DEMANDS FOR NEWS OF US ON 
THE HILLTOP "AFTER THE BATTLE,'' INSPIRED 
THE COLLECTING AND EDITING OF THESE LETTERS, 

THIS LITTLE BOOK IS 
GRATEFULLY DEDICATED 



ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

Photograph of the Author, Repro- 
duced in Photogravure . . Frontispiece ^ 

Amelie 6 ^ 

Mlle. Henriette, "Looking so Pretty 

in Her Nurse's Dress and Veil" . 14 ^ 

Bishop Morbeau and His "Poilus" . 26 ^ 



/ 



La Creste, "The House on the Hill- 
top," facing East 60 ' 

Our Ambulance go 

Morning Coffee in the Garden at 
La Creste 120 

The Chateau Gate 206 " 

Aspirant B — at a " Post d'Ecoute " in 
the Trenches at Tracy-le-Val, 
the Nearest Trench to Paris . . 240 v 

"You Can Go to the Opera, Which I 
Can't Do if I Like, but You Can't 
See the Heroes of Verdun not 
only Applauding a Show, but Giv- 
ing It" 266 

"The Entire Programme is Given by 
the 'Poilus'" 268 

At a Rehearsal at the Chateau de 

Quincy 270 ^ 

The Library at La Creste .... 276 * 

Map End Paper 



ON THE EDGE OF THE 
WAR ZONE 



La Crest e j Huiry, Couilly. S et M. 
September 16, 1914 
Dear Old Girl: — 

More and more I find that we humans 
are queer animals. 

All through those early, busy, exciting 
days of September, — can it be only a fort- 
night ago? — I was possessed, like the 
" busy bee," to " employ each shining 
hour " by writing out my adventures. Yet, 
no sooner was the menace of those days 
gone, than, for days at a time, I had no 
desire to see a pen. 

Perhaps it was because we were so ab- 
solutely alone, and because, for days, I 
had no chance to send you the letters I had 
written, nor to get any cable to you to tell 
you that all was well. 

There was a strange sort of sonlage- 
ment in the conviction that we had, as my 
neighbors say, " echappe bien." I sup- 
pose it is human. It was like the first days 

[ 1 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

of a real convalescence - — life is so good, 
the world is so beautiful. The war was 
still going on. We still heard the cannon 
— they are booming this minute — but we 
had not seen the spiked helmets dashing up 
my hill, nor watched the walls of our little 
hamlet fall. I imagine that if human na- 
ture were not just like that, Life could 
never be beautiful to any thinking person. 
We all know that, though it be not today, 
it is to be, but we seem to be fitted for that, 
and the idea does not spoil life one bit. 

It is very silent here most of the time. 
We are so few. Everybody works. No 
one talks much. With the cannon boom- 
ing out there no one feels in the humor, 
though now and then we do get shaken 
up a bit. Everything seems a long time 
ago. Yet it is really only nine days since 
the French troops advanced - — nine days 
since Paris was saved. 

The most amazing thing of all is that 
our communications, which were cut on 
September 2, were reopened, in a sort of 
a way, on the ioth. That was only one 
week of absolute isolation. On that day 
we were told that postal communication 
with Paris was to be reopened with an 
automobile service from Couilly to Lagny, 
from which place, on the other side of the 
Marne, trains were running to Paris. 

[ ^ ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

So Amelie gathered up my letters, and 
carried them down the hill, and dropped 
them hopefully in the box under the shut- 
tered window of the post-office in the de- 
serted town. 

That was six days ago, and it is only this 
morning that I began to feel like writing 
to you again. I wanted to cable, but there 
is no way yet, so I can only hope that you 
know your geography well enough not to 
have worried since the 7th. 

Although we are so shut in, we got news 
from the other side of the Marne on 
Wednesday, the 9th, the day after I wrote 
to you — the fifth day of the battle. Of 
course we had no newspapers; our malrie 
and post-office being closed, there was no 
telegraphic news. Besides, our telegraph 
wires are dangling from the poles just as 
the English engineers left them on Sep- 
tember 2. It seems a century ago. 

We knew the Germans were still re- 
treating because each morning the boom- 
ing of the cannon and the columns of 
smoke were further off, and because the 
slopes and the hills before us, which had 
been burning the first three days of the 
battle, were lying silent in the wonderful 
sunshine, as if there were no living people 
in the world except us few on this side of 
the river. 

[ 3 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

At no time can we see much movement 
across the river except with a glass. The 
plains are undulating. The roads are tree- 
lined. We trace them by the trees. But 
the silence over there seems different to- 
day. Here and there still thin ribbons of 
smoke — now rising straight in the air, 
and now curling in the breeze — say that 
something is burning, not only in the bom- 
barded towns, but in the woods and plains. 
But what? No one knows. 

One or two of our older men crossed 
the Marne on a raft on the ioth, the 
sixth day of the battle. They brought back 
word that thousands from the battles of the 
5th, 6th, and 7th had lain for days un- 
buried under the hot September sun, but 
that the fire department was already out 
there from Paris, and that it would only 
be a few days when the worst marks of 
the terrible fight would be removed. But 
they brought back no news. The few 
people who had remained hidden in cellars 
or on isolated farms knew no more than 
we did, and it was impossible, naturally, 
to get near to the field ambulance at 
Neufmortier, which we can see from my 
lawn. 

However, on the 9th — the very day 
after the French advanced from here — 
we got news in a very amusing way. We 

[ 4 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

had to take it for what it was worth, 
or seemed to be. It was just after noon. 
I was working in the garden on the south 
side of the house. I had instinctively put 
the house between me and the smoke of 
battle when Amelie came running down 
the hill in a high state of excitement, cry- 
ing out that the French were " coming 
back," that there had been a " great vic- 
tory," and that I was to " come and see." 

She was in too much of a hurry to ex- 
plain or wait for any questions. She 
simply started across the fields in the direc- 
tion of the Demi-Lune, where the route 
nationale from Meaux makes a curve to 
run down the long hill to Couilly. 

I grabbed a sunbonnet, picked up my 
glasses, and followed her to a point in the 
field from which I could see the road. 

Sure enough — there they were — cui- 
rassiers — the sun glinting on their hel- 
mets, riding slowly towards Paris, as gaily 
as if returning from a fete, with all sorts 
of trophies hanging to their saddles. 

I was content to go no nearer. It was 
no army returning. It was only a small 
detachment. Still, I could not help feeling 
that if any of them were returning in that 
spirit, while the cannon were still boom- 
ing, all must be well. 

Amelie ran all the way to the Demi- 

[5 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Lune — a little more than a quarter of a 
mile. I could see her simply flying over 
the ground. I waited where I was until 
she came back, crying breathlessly, long 
before she reached me: 

" Oh, madame, what do you think? 
The regiment which was here yesterday 
captured a big, big cannon." 

That was good news. They really had 
not looked it. 

" And oh, madame," she went on, as 
she reached me, " the war is over. The 
Germans have asked for peace," and she 
sat right down on the ground. 

"Peace?" I exclaimed. "Where? 
Who told you that?" 

" A man out there. He heard it from a 
soldier. They have asked for peace, those 
Boches, and General Gallieni, he told 
them to go back to their own frontier, and 
ask for it there." 

"And have they gone, Amelie?" I 
asked. 

She replied quite seriously that they 
were going, and she was terribly hurt 
because I laughed, and remarked that I 
hoped they would not be too long about it. 

I had the greatest possible difficulty in 
making her realize that we were only hear- 
ing a very small part of a battle, which, 
judging by the movements which had pre- 

[6] 




Am e lie 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

ceded it, was possibly extending from here 
to the vicinity of Verdun, where the Crown 
Prince was said to be vainly endeavoring 
to break through, his army acting as a sort 
of a pivot on which the great advance had 
swung. I could not help wondering if, as 
often happens in the game of " snap the 
whip," von Kluck's right wing had got 
swung off the line by the very rapidity 
with which it must have covered that long 
arc in the great two weeks' offensive. 

Amelie, who has an undue confidence in 
my opinion, was terribly disappointed, 
quite downcast. Ever since the British 
landed — she has such faith in the British 
— she has believed in a short war. Of 
course I don't know any more than she 
does. I have to guess, and I 'm not a 
lucky guesser as a rule. I confess to you 
that even I am absolutely obsessed by the 
miracle which has turned the invaders back 
from the walls of Paris. I cannot get over 
the wonder of it. In the light of the sud- 
den, unexpected pause in that great push 
I have moments of believing that almost 
anything can happen. I '11 wager you 
know more about it on your side of the 
great pond than we do here within hearing 
of the battle. 

I don't even know whether it is true or 
not that Gallieni is out there. If it is, that 

[ 7 1 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

must mean that the army covering Paris 
has advanced, and that Joffre has called 
out his reserves which have been entrenched 
all about the seventy-two miles of steel 
that guards the capital. I wondered then, 
and today — seven days later — I am won- 
dering still. 

It was useless to give these conjectures 
to Amelie. She was too deep in her dis- 
appointment. She walked sadly beside me 
back to the garden, an altogether differ- 
ent person from the one who had come 
racing across the field in the sunshine. 
Once there, however, she braced up enough 
to say: 

" And only think, madame, a woman 
out there told me that the Germans who 
were here last week were all chauffeurs 
at the Galeries Lafayette and other big 
shops in Paris, and that they not only knew 
all the country better than we do, they 
knew us all by name. One of them, who 
stopped at her door to demand a drink, 
told her so himself, and called her by 
name. He told her he had lived in Paris 
for years." 

That was probably true. The delivery 
automobiles from all the big shops in Paris 
came out here twice, and some of them 
three times a week. It is no secret that 
Paris was full of Germans, and has been 

[ 3 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

ever since that beastly treaty of Frankfort, 
which would have expired next year. 

After Amelie had gone back to her 
work, I came into the library and sat down 
at my desk to possess my soul with what 
patience I could, until official news came. 
But writing was impossible. 

Of course to a person who has known 
comparatively few restraints of this sort, 
there is something queer in this kind of 
isolation. I am afraid I cannot exactly 
explain it to you. As I could not work, I 
walked out on to the chemin Madame. 
On one side I looked across the valley of 
the Marne to the heights crowned by the 
bombarded towns. On the other I looked 
across the valley of the Grande Morin, 
where, on the heights behind the trees, I 
knew little towns like Coutevoult and 
Montbarbin were evacuated. In the valley 
at the foot of the hill, Couilly and St. Ger- 
main, Montry and Esbly were equally de- 
serted. No smoke rose above the red 
roofs. Not a soul was on the roads. 
Even the railway station was closed, and 
the empty cars stood, locked, on the side- 
tracks. It was strangely silent. 

I don't know how many people there 
are at Voisins. I hear that there is no 
one at Quincy. As for Huiry? Well, our 
population — everyone accounted for be- 

[ 9 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

fore the mobilization — was twenty-nine. 
The hamlet consists of only nine houses. 
Today we are six grown people and seven 
children. 

There is no doctor if one should be so 
silly as to fall ill. There are no civil au- 
thorities to make out a death certificate 
if one had the bad taste to die — and one 
can't die informally in France. If anyone 
should, so far as I can see, he would have 
to walk to his grave, dig it, and lie down 
in it himself, and that would be a scandal, 
and I am positive it would lead to a proces. 
The French love lawsuits, you know. No 
respectable family is ever without one. 

However, there has not been a case of 
illness in our little community since we 
were cut off from the rest of the world. 

Somehow, at times, in the silence, I get a 
strange sensation of unreality — the sort of 
intense feeling of its all being a dream. I 
wish I did n't. I wonder if that is not Na- 
ture's narcotic for all experiences outside 
those we are to expect from Life, which, in 
its normal course, has tragedies enough. 

Then again, sometimes, in the night, I 
have a sensation as if I were getting a 
special view of a really magnificent spec- 
tacle to which the rest of u my set " had 
not been invited — as if I were seeing it 
at a risk, but determined to see it through. 
[ io ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I can imagine you, wrinkling your brows 
at me and telling me that that frame of 
mind comes of my theatre-going habit. 
Well, it is not worth while arguing it out. 
I can't. There is a kind of veil over it. 

Nor were the day's mental adventures 
over. 

I was just back from my promenade 
when my little French friend from the foot 
of the hill came to the door. I call her 
" my little friend," though she is taller 
than I am, because she is only half my age. 
She came with the proposition that I should 
harness Ninette and go with her out to 
the battlefield, where, she said, they were 
sadly in need of help. 

I asked her how she knew, and she re- 
plied that one of our old men had been 
across the river and brought back the 
news that the field ambulance at Neuf- 
mortier was short of nurses, and that it 
was thought that there were still many 
wounded men in the woods who had not 
yet been picked up. 

I asked her if any official call for help 
had come. She said " No," but she pre- 
sented so strong a case in favor of volun- 
teering that, at first, it seemed to me that 
there was nothing to do but go, and go 
quickly. 

But before she got outside the gate I 

[ ii ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

rushed after her to tell her that it seemed 
impossible, — that I knew they did n't 
want an old lady like me, however willing, 
an old lady very unsteady on her feet, 
absolutely ignorant of the simplest rules 
of " first aid to the wounded," that they 
needed skilled and tried people, that we 
not only could not lend efficient aid, but 
should be a nuisance, even if, which I 
doubted, we were allowed to cross the 
Marne. 

All the time I was explaining myself, 
with that diabolical dual consciousness 
which makes us spectator and listener to 
ourselves, in the back of my brain — or 
my soul — was running this query: "I 
wonder what a raw battlefield looks like? 
I have a chance to see if I want to — per- 
haps." I suppose that was an attack of in- 
voluntary, unpremeditated curiosity. I did 
not want to go. 

I wonder if that was not the sort of 
thing which, if told in the confessional in 
ancient times, got one convicted of being 
" possessed of the devil"? 

Of course Mile. Henriette was terribly 
disappointed. Her mother would not let 
her go without me. I imagine the wise 
lady knew that I would not go. She tried 
to insist, but my mind was made up. 

She argued that we could " hunt for the 

[ 12 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

dead," and " carry consolation to the 
dying." I shook my head. I even had to 
cut the argument short by going into the 
house. I felt an imperative need to get 
the door closed between us. The habit 
I have — you know it well, it is often 
enough disconcerting to me — of getting 
an ill-timed comic picture in my mind, 
made me afraid that I was going to laugh 
at the wrong moment. If I had, I should 
never have been able to explain to her, 
and hope to be understood. 

The truth was that I had a sudden, 
cinematographical vision of my chubby 
self — me, who cannot walk half a mile, 
nor bend over without getting palpitation 

— stumbling in my high-heeled shoes over 
the fields ploughed by cavalry and shell — 
breathlessly bent on carrying consolation 
to the dying. I knew that I should surely 
have to be picked up with the dead and 
dying, or, worse still, usurp a place in 
an ambulance, unless eternal justice — in 
spite of my age, my sex, and my white 
hairs — left me lying where I fell — and 
serve me good and right! 

I know now that if the need and oppor- 
tunity had come to my gate — as it might 

— I should, instinctively, have known what 
to do, and have done it. But for me to 
drive deliberately nine miles — we should 

[ 13 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

have had to make a wide detour to cross 
the Marne on the pontoons — behind a 
donkey who travels two miles an hour, 
to seek such an experience, and with sev- 
eral hours to think it over en route, and 
the conviction that I would be an unwel- 
come intruder — that was another matter. 

I am afraid Mile. Henriette will never 
forgive me. She will soon be walking 
around in a hospital, looking so pretty in 
her nurse's dress and veil. But she will 
always think that she lost a great oppor- 
tunity that day — and a picturesque one. 

By the way, I have a new inmate in my 
house — a kitten. He was evidently lost 
during the emigration. Amelie says he is 
three months old. He arrived at her door 
crying with hunger the other morning. 
Amelie loves beasties better than humans. 
She took him in and fed him. But as she 
has six cats already, she seemed to think 
that it was my duty to take this one. She 
cloaked that idea in the statement that it 
was " good for me " to have " something 
alive " moving about me in the silent little 
house. So she put him in my lap. He 
settled himself down, went to sleep, and 
showed no inclination to leave me. 

At the end of two hours he owned me 
— the very first cat I ever knew, except by 
sight. 

[ 14 ] 




Mlle. Henriette 
Looking so pretty in her nurse's dress and veil 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

So you may dismiss that idea which tor- 
ments you — I am no longer alone. 

I am going to send this letter at once 
to be dropped in the box in front of the 
post-office, where I am very much afraid 
it may find that of last week, for we have 
had no letters yet nor have I seen or 
heard anything of the promised automo- 
bile postale. However, once a stamped 
letter is out of my hand, I always feel at 
least as if it had started, though in all 
probability this may rest indefinitely in that 
box in the " deserted village." 



[ 15 ] 



II 

September 25, 1914 

It is over a week since I wrote you. But 
I have really been very busy, and not had 
a moment. 

To begin with, the very day after I 
wrote to you, Amelie came down with one 
of her sick headaches, and she has the 
most complete sort I ever met. 

She crawled upstairs that morning to 
open my blinds. I gave one look at her, 
and ordered her back to bed. If there is 
anything that can make one look worse 
than a first-class bilious attack I have never 
met it. One can walk round and do things 
when one is suffering all sorts of pain, or 
when one is trembling in every nerve, or 
when one is dying of consumption, but I 
defy anyone to be useful when one has an 
active sick headache. 

Amelie protested, of course; " the work 
must be done." I did not see why it 
had to be. She argued that I was the mis- 
tress, " had a right to be attended to — 
had a right to expect it." I did not see 
that either. I told her that her logic was 
false. She clinched it, as she thought, by 

[ 16 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

declaring that I looked as if / needed to 
be taken care of. 

I was indignant. I demanded the hand- 
glass, gave one look at myself, and I was 
inclined to let it slide off the bed to the 
floor, a la Camille, only Amelie would not 
have seen the joke. I did look old and 
seedy. But what of that? Of course 
Amelie does not know yet that I am like 
the " Deacon's One Hoss Shay " — I may 
look dilapidated, but so long as I do not 
absolutely drop apart, I can go. 

So I told Amelie that if I were the mis- 
tress, I had a right to be obeyed, and that 
there were times when there was no ques- 
tion of mistress and maid, that this was 
one of those times, that she had been a 
trump and a brick, and other nice things, 
and that the one thing I needed was to 
work with my own hands. She finally 
yielded, but not to my arguments — to 
Nature. 

Perhaps owing to the excitement of 
three weeks, perhaps to the fact that she 
had worked too hard in the sun, and also, 
it may be, owing to the long run she took, 
of which I wrote you in my letter of last 
week, it is the worst attack I ever saw. 
I can tell you I wished for a doctor, and 
she is even now only a little better. 

However, I have had what we used to 

[ 17 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

call " a real nice time playing house." 
Having nothing else to do, I really en- 
joyed it. I have swept and dusted, and 
handled all my little treasures, touching 
everything with a queer sensation — it had 
all become so very precious. All the time 
my thoughts flew back to the past. That 
is the prettiest thing about housework — 
one can think of such nice things when one 
is working with one's hands, and is alone. 
I don't wonder Burns wrote verses as he 
followed the plough — if he really did. 

I think I forgot to tell you in my letter 
of last week that the people — drummed 
out of the towns on the other side of the 
Marne, that is to say, the near-by towns, 
like those in the plain, and on the hilltops 
from which the Germans were driven be- 
fore the ioth — began to return on that 
night; less than a fortnight after they 
fled. It was unbelievable to 'me when I 
saw them coming back. 

When they were drummed out, they 
took a roundabout route, to leave the main 
roads free for the army. They came back 
over the route nationale. They fled en 
masse. They are coming back slowly, in 
family groups. Day after day, and night 
after night the flocks of sheep, droves of 
cattle, carts with pigs in them, people in 
carts leading now and then a cow, families 

[ 18 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

on foot, carrying cats in baskets, and lead- 
ing dogs and goats and children, climb the 
long hill from Couilly, or thread the foot- 
paths on the canal. 

They fled in silence. I remember as 
remarkable that no one talked. I cannot 
say that they are coming back exactly 
gaily, but, at any rate, they have found 
their tongues. The slow procession has 
been passing for a fortnight now, and at 
almost any hour of the day, as I sit at my 
bedroom window, I can hear the distant 
murmur of their voices as they mount the 
hill. 

I can't help thinking what some of them 
are going to find out there in the track of 
the battle. But it is a part of the strange 
result of war, borne in on me by my own 
frame of mind, that the very fact that they 
are going back to their own hearths seems 
to reconcile them to anything. 

Of course these first people to return 
are mostly the poorer class, who did not 
go far. Their speedy return is a proof of 
the morale of the country, because they 
would surely not have been allowed to 
come back by the military authorities 
if the general conviction was not that 
the German advance had been definitely 
checked Is n't it wonderful? I can't get 
over it. 

[ 19 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Even before they began to return, the 
engineers were at work repairing the 
bridges as far as Chalons, and the day I 
wrote to you last week, when Amelie went 
down the hill to mail your letter, she 
brought back the news that the English en- 
gineers were sitting astride the telegraph 
poles, pipes in mouth, putting up the wires 
they cut down a fortnight ago. The next 
day our post-office opened, and then I got 
newspapers. I can tell you I devoured 
them. I read Joffre's order of the day. 
What puzzled me was that it was dated 
on the morning of September 6, yet we, 
with our own eyes, saw the battle begin at 
noon on the 5th, — a battle which only 
stopped at nine that night, to begin again 
at four the next morning. But I suppose 
history will sometime explain that. 

Brief as the news was in the papers, it 
was exciting to know that the battle we 
had seen and heard was really a decisive 
fight, and that it was considered won by 
the English and French — in a rainstorm 
— as long ago as the 10th, and that the 
fighting to the east of us had been far 
more terrible than here. 

I suppose long before this our myriads 
of " special telegraph " men have sent 
you over details and anecdotes such as we 
shall never see. We get a meagre " com- 

[ 20 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

munique official " and have to be content 
with that. It is now and then hard for 
me, who have been accustomed to some- 
thing different. 

None of our shops is open yet. In- 
deed almost no one has returned to 
Couilly; and Meaux, they say, is still de- 
serted. Yet I cannot honestly say that I 
have suffered for anything. I have an 
abundance of fruit. We have plenty of 
vegetables in Pere's garden. We have 
milk and eggs. Rabbits and chickens run 
about in the roads simply asking to be 
potted. There is no petrol, but I, luckily, 
had a stock of candles, and I love candle- 
light — it suits my house better than lamps. 
It is over a fortnight since we had sugar 
or butter or coffee. I have tea. I never 
would have supposed that I could have got 
along so well and not felt deprived. I 
suppose we always have too much — I 've 
had the proof. Perhaps had there been 
anyone with me I should have felt it more. 
Being alone I did not give it a thought. 

Sunday afternoon, the weather being 
still fine and the distant booming of the 
cannon making reading or writing impos- 
sible — I am not yet habituated to it — I 
went for a walk. I took the road down 
the hill in the direction of the Marne. It 
is a pretty walk — not a house all the way. 

[ 21 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

It leads along what is called the Pave du 
Roi, dropping down into the plain of the 
valley, through the woods, until the wheat 
fields are reached, and then rising from 
the plain, gently, to the high suspension 
bridge which crosses the canal, two min- 
utes beyond which lies the river, here very 
broad and sluggish. 

This part of the canal, which is per- 
fectly straight from Conde to Meaux, is 
unusually pretty. The banks are steep, 
and " tall poplar trees " cast long shadows 
across grass-edged footpaths, above which 
the high bridge is swung. There is no 
bridge here across the Marne; the near- 
est in one direction is at the Iles-les-Vil- 
lenoy, and in the other at Meaux. So, 
as the Germans could not have crossed the 
Marne here, the canal bridge was not de- 
stroyed, though it was mined. The barri- 
cades of loose stones which the English 
built three weeks ago, both at the bridge- 
head and at a bend in the road just be- 
fore it is reached, where the road to Mar- 
euil sur Marne turns off, were still there. 

The road along the canal and through 
Mareuil is the one over which the German 
cavalry would have advanced had von 
Kluck's army succeeded in crossing the 
Marne at Meaux, and it was patrolled 
and guarded by the Yorkshire boys on 

[ 22 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

September 2, and the Bedfords from the 
night of the 3d to the morning of the 5th. 

The road from the canal to the river, 
separated here by only a few yards, leads 
through a wide avenue, across a private 
estate belonging to the proprietor of the 
plaster quarries at Mareuil, to a ferry, be- 
side which was the lavoir. There is a 
sunken and terraced fruit garden below the 
road, and an extensive enclosure for fancy 
fowl. 

The bank of the river showed me a sad 
sight. The wash-houses were sunk. They 
lay under water, with their chimneys stick- 
ing out. The little river piers and all the 
row-boats had been smashed and most of 
them sunk. A few of them, drawn up on 
the bank, were splintered into kindling 
wood. This work of destruction had been 
done, most effectively, by the English. 
They had not left a stick anywhere that 
could have served the invaders. It was 
an ugly sight, and the only consolation was 
to say, " If the Boches had passed, it would 
have been worse! " This was only ugly. 
That would have been tragic. 

The next day I had my first real 
news from Meaux. A woman arrived at 
Amelie's, leading two dogs tied together 
with rope. She was a music teacher, living 
at Meaux, and had walked over thirty 

[ 23 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

miles, and arrived exhausted. So they 
took her in for the night, and the next 
morning Pere harnessed Ninette and took 
her and her weary dogs to Meaux. It 
was over two hours each way for Ninette, 
but it was better than seeing an exhausted 
woman, almost as old as I am, finishing 
her pilgrimage on foot. She is the first 
person returning to Meaux that we have 
seen. Besides, I imagine Pere was glad 
of the excuse to go across the Marne. 

When he came back we knew exactly 
what had happened at the cathedral city. 

The picturesque mill bridges across the 
Marne have been partly saved. The ends 
of the bridges on the town side were blown 
up, and the mills were mined, to be de- 
stroyed on the German approach. Pere 
was told that an appeal was made to the 
English commanders to save the old land- 
marks if possible, and although at that time 
it seemed to no one at all likely that they 
could be saved, this precaution did save 
them. He tells me that blowing up the 
bridge-heads smashed all the windows, 
blew out all the doors, and damaged 
the walls more or less, but all that is 
reparable. 

Do you remember the last time we were 
at Meaux, how we leaned on the stone wall 
on that beautiful Promenade des Trini- 

[ 24] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

taires, and watched the waters of the 
Marne churned into froth by the huge 
wheels of the three lines of mills lying 
from bank to bank? I know you will be 
glad they are saved. It would have been 
a pity to destroy that beautiful view. I 
am afraid that we are in an epoch where 
we shall have to thank Fate for every fine 
thing and every well-loved view which sur- 
vives this war between the Marne and the 
frontier, where the ground had been 
fought over in all the great wars of France 
since the days of Charlemagne. 

It seems that more people stayed at 
Meaux than I supposed. Monsignor 
Morbeau stayed there, and they say about 
a thousand of the poor were hidden care- 
fully in the cellars. It had fourteen thou- 
sand inhabitants. Only about five build- 
ings were reached by bombs, and the 
damage is not even worth recording. 

I am sure you must have seen the Bishop 
in the days when you lived in Paris, when 
he was cure at St. Honore d'Eylau in the 
Place Victor Hugo. At that time he was 
a popular priest — mondain, clever and 
eloquent. At Meaux he is a power. No 
figure is so familiar in the picturesque old 
streets, especially on market day, Satur- 
day, as this tall, powerful-looking man in 
his soutane and barrette, with his air of 

[ 25 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

authority, familiar yet dignified. He 
seems to know everyone by name, is all 
over the market, his keen eyes seeing 
everything, as influential in the everyday 
life of his diocese as he is in its spiritual 
affairs, a model of what a modern arch- 
bishop ought to be. 

I hear he was on the battlefield from 
the beginning, and that the first ambu- 
lances to reach Meaux found the seminary 
full of wounded picked up under his direc- 
tion and cared for as well as his resources 
permitted. He has written his name in 
the history of the old town under that of 
Bbssuet — and in the records of such a 
town that is no small distinction. 

The news which is slowly filtering back 
to us from the plains is another matter. 

Some of the families in our commune 
have relatives residing in the- little hamlets 
between Cregy and Monthyon, and have 
been out to help them re-install themselves. 
Very little in the way of details of the 
battle seems to be known. Trees and 
houses dumbly tell their own tales. The 
roads are terribly cut up, but road builders 
are already at work. Huge trees have 
been broken off like twigs, but even there 
men are at work, uprooting them and cut- 
ting the wood into lengths and piling it 
neatly along the roadside to be carted 

[ 26 ] 




Bishop Morbeau and His "Poilus" 

" I hear he was on the battlefield from the beginning. ... He 
has written his name in the history of the old town under that of 
Bossuet — and in the records of such a town that is no small 
distinction." 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

away. The dead are buried, and Paris 
automobiles are rapidly removing all 
traces of the battles and carrying out of 
sight such disfigurements as can be re- 
moved. 

But the details we get regarding the 
brief German occupation are too disgust- 
ing for words. It is not the actual de- 
struction of the battle — for Barcy alone 
of the towns in sight from here seems to 
be practically destroyed — which is the 
most painful, it is the devastation of the 
German occupation, with its deliberate and 
filthy defilement of the houses, which de- 
fies words, and will leave a blot for all 
time on the records of the race so vile- 
minded as to have achieved it. The de- 
liberate ingenuity of the nastiness is its 
most debasing feature. At Penchard, 
where the Germans only stayed twenty- 
four hours, many people were obliged to 
make bonfires of the bedding and all sorts 
of other things as the only and quickest 
way to purge the town of danger in such 
hot weather. 

I am told that Penchard is a fair ex- 
ample of what the Germans did in all 
these small towns which lay in the line of 
their hurried retreat. 

It is not worth while for me to go into 
detail regarding such disgusting acts. 

[ 27 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Your imagination, at its most active, can- 
not do any wrong to the race which in this 
war seems determined to offend where it 
cannot terrorize. 

It is wonderfully characteristic of the 
French that they have accepted this feature 
of their disaster as they have accepted the 
rest — with courage, and that they have at 
once gone to work to remove all the Ger- 
man " hall-marks " as quickly as possible 
— and now have gone back to their fields 
in the same spirit. 

It was not until yesterday that I un- 
packed my little hat-trunk and carefully 
put its contents back into place. 

It has stood all these days under the 
stairs in the salon — hat, cape, and gloves 
on it, and shoes beside it, just as I 
packed it. 

I had an odd sensation while I was 
emptying it. I don't know why I put it 
off so long. Perhaps I dreaded to find, 
locked in it, a too vivid recollection of 
the day I closed it. It may be that I 
was afraid that, with the perversity of 
inanimate things, it had the laugh on 
me. 

I don't believe I put it off from fear of 

having to repack it, for, so far as I can 

know myself, I cannot find in my mind any 

signs, even, of a dread that what had hap- 

[ 28 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

pened once could happen again. But I 
don't know. 

I wish I had more newsy things to write 
you. But nothing is happening here, you 
see. 



[ 29 ] 



Ill 

October 2, 1914 

Well, Amelie came back yesterday, 
and I can tell you it was a busy day. I 
assure you that I was glad to see her about 
the house again. I liked doing the work 
well enough, — for a little while. But I 
had quite all I wanted of it before the 
fortnight was over. I felt like " giving 
praise " when I saw her coming into the 
garden, looking just as good as new, and, 
my word for it, she made things hum 
yesterday. 

The first thing she did, after the house 
was in order, and lunch out of the way, 
was to open up the cave in which she had 
stored her household treasures a month 
ago, and I passed a rare afternoon. I 
spent a good part of it getting behind 
something to conceal my silent laughter. 
If you had been here you would have en- 
joyed it — and her. 

I knew something was as it should not 
be when I saw her pushing the little wheel- 
barrow on which were all my waste- 
baskets — I have needed them. But when 
I got them back, it about finished my at- 

1 30 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

tempts at sobriety. I told her to put them 
on the dining-room table and I would un- 
pack them and put the contents in place. 
But before that was done, I had to listen 
to her " tale of woe." 

She had hidden practically everything 
— clocks, bed and table linen, all her mat- 
tresses, except the ones she and Pere slept 
on, practically all their clothes, except what 
they had on their backs and one change. 
I had not given it much thought, though 
I do remember her saying, when the sub- 
terranean passage was sealed up: "Let 
the Boches come ! They '11 find mighty 
little in my house." 

Well — the clocks are rusted. They 
are soaking in kerosene now, and I imag- 
ine it is little good that will do them. All 
her linen is damp and smelly, and much 
of it is mildewed. As for the blankets 
and flannels — ough ! 

I felt sympathetic, and tried to appear 
so. But I was in the condition of 
u L'homme qui rit." The smallest effort 
to express an emotion tended to make me 
grimace horribly. She was so funny. I 
was glad when she finished saying naughty 
words about herself, and declaring that 
" Madame was right not to upset her 
house," and that the next time the Boches 
thought of coming here they would be 

[ 31 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

welcome to anything she had. " For," 
she ended, " I '11 never get myself into 
this sort of a mess again, my word of 
honor ! " And she marched out of the 
house, carrying the bottle of eau de Javelle 
with her. The whole hamlet smells of it 
this minute. 

I had a small-sized fit of hysterics after 
she had gone, and it was not cured by 
opening up my waste-baskets and laying 
out the " treasures " she had saved for 
me. I laughed until I cried. 

There were my bouillion cups, and no 
saucers. The saucers were piled in the 
buffet. There were half-a-dozen deco- 
rated plates which had stood on end in 
the buffet, — just as color notes — no 
value at all. There were bits of silver, 
and nearly all the plated stuff. There was 
an old painted fan, several strings of beads, 
a rosary which hung on a nail at the head 
of my bed, a few bits of jewelry — you 
know how little I care for jewelry, — and 
there were four brass candlesticks. 

The only things I had missed at all were 
the plated things. I had not had tea- 
spoons enough when the English were 
here — not that they cared. They were 
quite willing to stir their tea with each 
other's spoons, since there was plenty of 
tea, — and a " stick " went with it. 

[ 32 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

You cannot deny that it had its funny 
side. 

I could not help asking myself, even 
while I wiped tears of laughter from my 
eyes, if most of the people I saw flying 
four weeks ago might not have found 
themselves in the same fix when it came 
to taking stock of what was saved and 
what was lost. 

I remember so well being at Aix-les- 
Bains, in 1899, when the Hotel du Beau- 
Site was burned, and finding a woman in 
a wrapper sitting on a bench in the park 
in front of the burning hotel, with the lace 
waist of an evening frock in one hand, and 
a small bottle of alcohol in the other. She 
explained to me, with some emotion, that 
she had gone back, at the risk of her life, 
to get the bottle from her dressing-table, 
" for fear that it would explode! " 

It did not take me half an hour to get 
my effects in order, but poor Amelie's dis- 
gust seems to increase with time. You 
can't deny that if I had been drummed out 
and came back to find my house a ruin, 
my books and pictures destroyed, and only 
those worthless bits of china and plated 
ware to " start housekeeping again," it 
would have been humorous. Real hu- 
mor is only exaggeration. That would 
surely have been a colossal exaggeration. 

1 33 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

It is not the first time I have had to ask 
myself, seriously, " Why this mania for 
possession?" The ferryman on the Styx 
is as likely to take it across as our railroad 
is to " handle " it today. Yet nothing 
seems able to break a person born with 
that mania for collecting. 

I stood looking round at it all when 
everything was in place, and I realized 
that if the disaster had come, I should 
have found it easy to reconcile myself to 
it in an epoch where millions were facing 
it with me. It is the law of Nature. 
Material things, like the friends we have 
lost, may be eternally regretted. They 
cannot be eternally grieved for. We must 

" — be up and doing, 
With a heart for any fate." 

All the same, it was a queer twist in the 
order of my life, that, hunting in all direc- 
tions for a quiet retreat in which to rest 
my weary spirit, I should have ended by 
deliberately sitting myself down on the 
edge of a battlefield, — even though it was 
on the safe edge, — and stranger still, that 
there I forgot that my spirit was weary. 

We are beginning to pick up all sorts 
of odd little tales of the adventures of 
some of the people who had remained at 
Voisin. One old man there, a mason, who 

[ 34 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

had worked on my house, had a very queer 
experience. Like all the rest of them, he 
went on working in the fields all through 
the menacing days. I can't make out 
whether he had no realization of actual 
danger, or whether that was his way of 
meeting it. Anyway, he disappeared on 
the morning the battle began, September 5, 
and did not return for several days. His 
old wife had made up her mind that the 
Germans had got him, when one morning 
he turned up, tired, pale, and hungry, and 
not in any state to explain his absence. 

It was some days before his wife could 
get the story out of him. He owns a field 
about halfway between Voisins and Mar- 
euil, close to the route de Pave dn Roi, 
and on the morning that the battle began 
he was digging potatoes there. Suddenly 
he saw a small group of horsemen riding 
down from the canal, and by their spiked 
helmets he knew them for Germans. 

His first idea, naturally, was to escape. 
He dropped his hoe, but he was too para- 
lyzed with fear to run, and there was 
nothing to hide behind. So he began walk- 
ing across the field as well as his trembling 
old legs would let him, with his hands in 
his pockets. 

Of course the Uhlans overtook him in 
a few minutes, and called out to him, in 

[ 35 ] 



On the Edge. of the War Zone 

French, to stop. He stopped at once, ex- 
pecting to be shot instantly. 

They ordered him to come out into the 
road. He managed to obey. By the time 
he got there terror had made him quite 
speechless. 

They began to question him. To all 
their questions he merely shook his head. 
He understood well enough, but his tongue 
refused its office, and by the time he could 
speak the idea had come to him to pretend 
that he was not French — that he was a 
refugee — that he did not know the coun- 
try, — was lost, — in fact, that he did not 
know anything. He managed to carry it 
off, and finally they gave him up as a bad 
job, and rode away up the hill towards my 
house. 

Then he had a new panic. He did not 
dare go home. He was afraid he would 
find them in the village, and that they 
would find out he had lied and harm his 
old wife, or perhaps destroy the town. So 
he had hidden down by the canal until 
hunger drove him home. It is a simple 
tale, but it was a rude experience for the 
old man, who has not got over it yet. 

I am afraid all this seems trivial to you, 
coming out of the midst of this terrible 
war. But it is actually our life here. We 
listen to the cannon in ignorance of what 

[ 36 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

is happening. Where would be the sense 
of my writing you that the battle-front has 
settled down to uncomfortable trench work 
on the Aisne; that Manoury is holding the 
line in front of us from Compiegne to 
Soissons, with Castelnau to the north of 
him, with his left wing resting on the 
Somme; that Maud'huy was behind Al- 
bert; and that Rheims cathedral had been 
persistently and brutally shelled since Sep- 
tember 18? We only get news of that 
sort intermittently. Our railroad is in the 
hands of the Minister of War, and every 
day or two our communications are cut 
off, from military necessity. You know, 
I am sure, more about all this than we do, 
with your cable men filling the newspapers. 

But if I am seeing none of that, I am 
seeing the spirit of these people, so sure 
of success in the end, and so convinced 
that, even if it takes the whole world to 
do it, they will yet see the Hohenzollern 
dynasty go up in the smoke of the con- 
flagration it has lighted. 

Of course, the vicious destruction of the 
great cathedral sends shivers down my 
back. Every time I hear the big guns in 
that direction I think of the last time we 
were there. Do you remember how we 
sat, in the twilight of a rainy day, in our 
top-floor room, at the Lion d'Or, in the 

[ 37 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

wide window-seat, which brought us just 
at a level with that dear tympanum, with 
its primitive stone carving of David and 
Goliath, and all those wonderful animals 
sitting up so bravely on the lacework of 
the parapet? Such a wave of pity goes 
over me when I think that not only is it 
destroyed, but that future generations are 
deprived of seeing it; that one of the 
greatest achievements of the hands of man, 
a work which has withstood so many wars 
in what we called " savage times," before 
any claims were made for " Kultur," 
should have been destroyed in our days. 
Men have come and men have gone (apol- 
ogies to Tennyson) — it is the law of 
living. But the wilful, unnecessary de- 
struction of the great works of man, the 
testimony which one age has left as a 
heritage to all time — for that loss neither 
Man nor Time has any consolation. It 
is a theft from future ages, and for it Ger- 
many will merit the hatred of the world 
through the coming generations. 



1 38 ] 



IV 

October 10, 1914 

Amelie and I went up to Paris day be- 
fore yesterday, for the first time since the 
battle, — you see everything here dates 
" before " and " after " the battle, and will 
for a long time. 

Trains had been running between Paris 
and Meaux for ten days, and will soon go 
as far as Chalons, where the Etat-Major 
was the last time we heard of it. Is n't 
that pretty quick work? And with three 
big bridges to build ? But the army needed 
the road, and the engineers were at work 
five days after the battle. 

There are but few trains — none yet 
on our branch road — so we had to go 
to Esbly. It took two hours to get to 
Paris — hardly more than twelve miles. 
We simply crawled most of the way. We 
crept through the tunnel this side of Lagny, 
and then stood on this side of the Marne, 
and whistled and shrieked a long time be- 
fore we began to wiggle across the unfin- 
ished bridge, with workmen hanging up on 
the derricks and scaffoldings in all sorts 
of perilous positions, and all sorts of 

[ 39 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

grotesque attitudes. I was glad when we 
were over. 

I found the town more normal than it 
was when I was there six weeks ago. If 
I had not seen it in those first days of the 
mobilization it would have seemed sadder 
than it did, and, by contrast, while it was 
not the Paris that you know, it was quiet 
and peaceful, — no excitement of any sort 
in the streets, practically no men anywhere. 
All the department shops were open, but 
few people were in them, and very little 
to sell. Many of the small shops were 
closed, and will be, I imagine, until the 
end of the war. All the Austrian and 
German shops, and there were many of 
them, are, of course, closed for good, mak- 
ing wide spaces of closed shutters in the 
Avenue de l'Opera and the rue de la Paix, 
and the rue Scribe, where so many of the 
steamship offices are. That, and the lack 
of omnibuses and tramways and the 
scarcity of cabs, makes the once brilliant 
and active quarter look quite unnatural. 
However, it gives one a chance to see how 
really handsome it is. 

A great many of the most fashion- 
able hotels are turned to hospitals, and 
everywhere, especially along the Champs- 
Elysees, the flags of the Red Cross float 
over once gay resorts, while big white 

[40 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

bunting signs extend across almost every 
other facade, carrying the name and num- 
ber of a hospital. 

Every sort of business is running short- 
handed, and no big office or bank is open 
between the hours of noon and two o'clock. 

I saw no one — there was no one to 
see. I finished the little business I had to 
do and then I went back to the station 
and sat on the terrace of the cafe opposite, 
and, for an hour, I watched the soldiers 
going in at one gate, and the public — In- 
dian file — presenting its papers at an- 
other. No carriages can enter the court- 
yard. No one can carry anything but 
hand luggage, and porters are not allowed 
to pass the gates, so one had to carry one's 
bundles one's self across the wide, paved 
court. However, it is less trying to do 
this than it was in other days, as one runs 
no risk from flying motor-cabs. 

We did not leave Paris until six — it 
was already dark — and there were few 
lights along the road. The Germans 
would love to destroy this road, which is 
on the direct line to the front, but I can- 
not imagine a bomb from an aeroplane 
reaching it at night, except by accident. 

By the way, the attitude of the public 
towards these war airships is queer. It 
seems a great deal more curiosity than 

[ 41 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

fear. I had heard this stated, and I had 
a chance to see it exemplified. Just as 
Amelie and I were stumbling in the dusk 
over the rough pavement of the court, we 
heard an aeroplane overhead. Everyone 
stopped short and looked up. Some fool 
called " Une Tanbe — une Taube! " 
People already inside the station turned 
and ran back to see. Of course, it was n't 
a Taube. Still, the fact that someone said 
it was, and that everyone ran out to look 
up at it, was significant, as I am sure they 
would have done just the same if it had 
really been a German machine. 

We came back even more slowly than 
we had gone up. It took ten minutes by 
my watch to cross the bridge at Chalifere. 
We jigged a bit and stopped; staggered 
a bit, and trembled, and stopped; crawled 
a bit, and whistled. I had a feeling that 
if anyone disobeyed the order pasted on 
every window, and leaned out, we should 
topple over into the stream. Still, no one 
seemed to mind. With the curtains drawn, 
everyone tried to read, by the dim light, 
a newspaper. It is remarkable how even 
ordinary people face danger if a panic can 
be prevented. The really great person is 
the one who even in a panic does not lose 
his head, and the next best thing to not 
being feazed at danger is, I believe, to 

[-42 ] 



Ox the Edge of the War Zone 

be literally paralyzed. Total immobility 
often passes for pluck. 

It was nearly half past eight when we 
reached Esbly; the town was absolutely 
dark. Pere was there with the donkey 
cart, and it took nearly an hour and a half 
to climb the hill to Huiry. It was pitch 
dark, and oh, so cold! Both Conde and 
Voisins, as well as Esbly, had street lamps 

— gas — before the war, but it was cut 
off when mobilization began, and so the 
road was black. This ordinary voyage 
seemed like journeying in a wilderness, 
and I was as tired as if I had been to 
London, which I take to be the hardest 
trip for the time it consumes that I know. 
I used to go to London in seven hours, 
and this trip to Paris and back had taken 
four hours and a half by train and three 
by carriage. 

I found your letter dated September 25 

— in reply to my first one mailed after 
the battle. I am shocked to hear that I 
was spectacular. I did not mean to be. I 
apologize. Please imagine me very red 
in the face and feeling a little bit silly. 
I should not mind your looking on me as 
a heroine and all those other names you 
throw at me if I had had time to flee along 
the roads with all I could save of my home 
on my back, as I saw thousands doing. 

[ 43 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

But I cannot pick up your bouquets, con- 
sidering that all I had to do was " sit 
tight " for a few days, and watch — at a 
safe distance — a battle sweep back. All 
you must say about that is " she did have 
luck." That 's what I say every day. 

As our railway communication is to be 
cut again, I am hurrying this off, not know- 
ing when I can send another. But as you 
see, I have no news to write — just words 
to remind you of me, and say that all is 
well with me in this world where it is so 
ill for many. 



[ 44 ] 



November 7, 1914 

It was not until I got out my letter- 
book this morning that I realized that I 
had let three weeks go by without writing 
to you. I have no excuse to offer, unless 
the suspense of the war may pass as one. 

We have settled down to a long war, 
and though we have settled down with 
hope, I can tell you every day demands 
its courage. 

The fall of Antwerp was accepted as 
inevitable, but it gave us all a sad day. 
It was no use to write you things of that 
sort. You, I presume, do not need to be 
told, although you are so far away, that 
for me, personally, it could only increase 
the grief I felt that Washington had not 
made the protest I expected when the Bel- 
gian frontier was crossed. It would have 
been only a moral effort, but it would have 
been a blow between the eyes for the nerv- 
ous Germans. 

All the words we get from the front tell 
us that the boys are standing the winter in 
the trenches very well. They 've simply 
got to — that is all there is to that. 

[ 45 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Amelie is more astonished than I am. 
When she first realized that they had got 
to stay out there in the rain and the mud 
and the cold, she just gasped out that 
they never would stand it. 

I asked her what they would do then 
— lie down and let the Germans ride over 
them? Her only reply was that they 
would all die. It is hard for her to real- 
ize yet the resistance of her own race. 

I am realizing in several ways, in a 
small sense, what the men are enduring. 
I take my bit of daily exercise walking 
round my garden. I always have to carry 
a trowel in my sweater pocket, and I stop 
every ten steps to dig the cakes of mud off 
my sabots. I take up a good bit of my 
landed property at every step. So I can 
guess, at least, what it must be out in the 
trenches. This highly cultivated, well-fer- 
tilized French soil has its inconveniences 
in a country where the ground rarely 
freezes as it does in New England. 

Also I am very cold. 

When I came out here I found that the 
coal dealer was willing to deliver coal to 
me once a week. I had a long, covered 
box along the wall of the kitchen which 
held an ample supply of coal for the week. 
The system had two advantages — it en- 
abled me to do my trading in the com- 

[ 46 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

mune, which I liked, and it relieved Amelie 
from having to carry heavy hods of coal 
In all weathers from the grange outside. 
But, alas, the railroad communications 
being cut — no coal! I had big wood 
enough to take me through the first weeks, 
and have some still, but it will hardly last 
me to Christmas — nor does the open fire 
heat the house as the salamandre did. But 
it is wartime, and I must not complain — 
yet. 

You accuse me in your last letter of 
being flippant in what seems to you tragic 
circumstances. I am sorry that I make 
that impression on you. I am not a bit 
flippant. I can only advise you to come 
over here, and live a little in this atmos- 
phere, and see how you would feel. I am 
afraid that no amount of imagining what 
one will or will not do prepares one to 
know what one will really do face to face 
with such actualities as I live amongst. I 
must confess that had I had anyone dear 
to me here, anyone for whose safety or 
moral courage I was — or imagined I was 
— responsible (for, after all, we are re- 
sponsible for no one), my frame of mind 
and perhaps my acts might have been dif- 
ferent. I don't know. Why, none of the 
men that I see have the air of feeling they 
are heroes — they just seem to think of it 

[ 47 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

all as if it were merely " in the day's 
work." 

For example, do you remember that 
handsome younger brother of my sculptor 
friend — the English boy who was in the 
heavy artillery, and had been in China 
and North Nigeria with Sir Frederick 
Ludgard as an aide-de-camp, and finally 
as assistant governor general? Well, he 
was with the first division of the British 
Expedition which landed in France in the 
middle of August. He made all that long, 
hard retreat from Belgium to the Marne, 
and was in the terrible Battle of the Rivers. 
I am enclosing a letter I have just received 
from him, because I think it very charac- 
teristic. Besides, if you remember him, 
I am sure that it will interest you. I don't 
know where it is from — they are not al- 
lowed to tell. It came, as army letters do, 
without any stamp — the carriage is free 
— with the round red stamp of the censor, 
a crown in the middle, and the words 
" Passed by the Censor," and the number 
printed around it. Here it is: 

October 30, 1914 

My dearest M : 

Last night I heard your account of your 
experiences between September 1 and 9, 
and it made me boil anew with disappoint- 

[48 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

ment that my attempts to reach Huiry on 
September 4 were frustrated. I was dis- 
appointed enough at the time, but then my 
regret was tempered by the thought that 
you were probably safe in Paris, and I 
should only find an empty house at La 
Creste. Now that I know that I should 
have found you — you/// — it makes me 
wild, even after this interval of time, to 
have missed a sight of you. Now let 
me tell you how it came about that you 
nearly received a visit from me. 

I left England August 17, with the 
48th Heavy Battery (3d division). We 
landed at Rouen, and went by train, via 
Amiens, to Houtmont, a few kilometres 
west of Mauberge. There we detrained 
one morning at two o'clock, marched 
through Malplaquet into Belgium, and 
came in contact with the enemy at once. 

The story of the English retreat must 
be familiar to you by now. It was a won- 
derful experience. I am glad to have 
gone through it, though I am not anxious 
to undergo such a time again. We crossed 
the Marne at Meaux, on September 3, 
marching due east to Signy-Signets. Fun- 
nily enough it was not until I had actually 
crossed the Marne that I suddenly real- 
ized that I was in your vicinity. Our 
route, unfortunately, led right away from 

[ 49 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

you, and I could not ask to get away while 
we were actually on the march, and pos- 
sibly going many miles in another direc- 
tion. The following day, however — the 
4th - — we retraced our steps somewhat, 
and halted to bivouac a short distance 
west of a village named La Haute Maison 
— roughly about six miles from you. I 
immediately asked permission to ride over 
to Huiry. The Major, with much regret, 
declined to let me leave, and, since we re- 
ceived orders to march again an hour later, 
he was right. We marched all that night. 
I have marked out our road with arrows 
on the little map enclosed. We reached 
a place called Fontenay about 8.30 the 
next morning, by which time I was twenty 
miles from you, and not in a condition to 
want anything but sleep and food. That 
was our farthest* point south. But, sad 
to say, in our advance we went by a road 
farther east, and quite out of reach of you, 
and crossed the Marne at a place called 
Nanteuil. ... I got your first letter about 
one day's march south of Mons. 

Best love, dearest M . Write 

again. N g 

Is n't that a calm way to state such a 
trying experience as that retreat? It is 
only a sample of a soldier's letter. 

[ 50 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

If he were disappointed you can imagine 
that I was. Luckily I had seen him in 
June, when he was here on a visit, having 
just returned from North Nigeria, after 
five years in the civil service, to take up 
his grade in the army, little dreaming there 
was to be a war at once. 

If he had come that afternoon imagine 
what I should have felt to see him ride 
down by the picket at the gate. He would 
have found me pouring tea for Captain 
Edwards of the Bedfords. It would have 
surely added a touch of reality to the 
battle of the next days. Of course I knew 
he was somewhere out there, but to have 
seen him actually riding away to it would 
have been different. Yet it might not, for 
I am sure his conversation would have 
been as calm as his letters, and they read 
as much as if he were taking an exciting 
pleasure trip, with interesting risks thrown 
in, as anything else. That is so English. 
On some future day I suppose we shall sit 
together on the lawn — he will probably 
lie on it — and swap wonderful stories, 
for I am going to be one of the veterans 
of this war. 

I must own that when I read the letter 
I found it suggestive of the days that are 
gone. Imagine marching through Malpla- 
quet and over all that West Flanders coun- 

[ 51 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

try with its memories of Marlborough, 
and where, had the Dutch left the Duke 
a free hand, he would have marched on 
Paris — with other Allies — as he did on 
Lille. I must own that history, with its 
records of bitter enemies yesterday, bosom 
friends today, does not inspire one with 
much hope of seeing the dreamer's vision 
of universal peace realized. 

Still, I must confess that the attitude 
of French and English to one another 
today is almost thrilling. The English 
Tommy Atkins and the French poilu are 
delightful together. For that matter, the 
French peasants love the English. They 
never saw any before, and their admira- 
tion and devotion to " Tommee," as they 
call him, is unbounded. They think him 
so " chic," and he is. 

No one — not even I, who so love them 
— could ever accuse the " piou-piou " of 
being chic. 

The French conscript in his misfits has 
too long been the object of affectionate 
sarcasm and the subject of caricature to 
be unfamiliar to the smiles of the whole 
world. 

You see the army outfits are made in 
three sizes only. So far as my observa- 
tion goes none of the three measurements 
fits anyone today, and as for the man who 

[ 52 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

is a real "between" — well, he is in a 
sad box. But what of that? He does n't 
seem to care. He is so occupied today 
fighting, just as he did in the days of the 
great Napoleon, that no one cares a rap 
how he looks — and surely he does not. 

You might think he would be a bit self- 
conscious regarding his appearance when 
he comes in contact with his smarter look- 
ing Ally. Not a bit of it. The poilu just 
admires Tommy and is proud of him. I 
do wish you could see them together. The 
poilu would hug Tommy and plant a kiss 
on each of his cheeks — if he dared. But, 
needless to say, that is the last sort of 
thing Tommy wants. So, faute de mleux 
the poilu walks as close to Tommy as he 
can — when he gets a chance — and the 
undemonstrative, sure-of-himself Tommy 
permits it without a smile — which is doing 
well. Still, in his own way Tommy ad- 
mires back — it is mutual. 

The Englishman may learn to unbend 
— I don't know. The spirit which has 
carried him all over the world, rubbed 
him against all sorts of conditions and so 
many civilizations without changing his 
character, and made of him the one race 
immune to home-sickness, has persisted for 
centuries, and may be so bred in the bone, 
fibre, and soul of the race as to persist 

[ 53 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

forever. It may have made his legs and 
his spine so straight that he can't unbend. 
He has his own kind of fun, but it 's mostly 
of the sporting sort. He will, I imag- 
ine, hardly contract the Frenchman's sort, 
which is so largely on his lips, and in his 
mentality, and has given the race the most 
mobile faces in the world. 

I am enclosing a copy of the little map 

Captain S sent me. It may give you 

an idea of the route the English were 
moving on during the battle, and the long 
forced march they made after the fighting 
of the two weeks ending August 30. 

I imagine they were all too tired to 
note how beautiful the country was. It 
was lovely weather, and coming down the 
route from Haute Maison, by La Cha- 
pelle, to the old moated town of Crecy-en- 
Brie at sunset, must have been beautiful; 
and then climbing by Voulangis to the 
Forest of Crecy on the way to Fontenay 
by moonlight even more lovely, with the 
panorama of Villiers and the valley of the 
Morin seen through the trees of the wind- 
ing road, with Montbarbin standing, out- 
lined in white light, on the top of a hill, 
like a fairy town. Tired as they were, I 
do hope there were some among them who 
could still look with a dreamer's eyes on 
these pictures. 

[ 54 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Actually the only work I have done of 
late has been to dig a little in the gar- 
den, preparing for winter. I did not take 
my geraniums up until last week. As for 
the dahlias I wrote you about, they be- 
came almost a scandal in the commune. 
They grew and grew, like Jack's beanstalk 
— prodigiously. I can't think of any other 
word to express it. They were eight feet 
high and full of flowers, which we cut for 
the Jour des Morts. I know you won't 
believe that, but it is true. A few days 
later there came a wind-storm, and when 
it was over, in spite of the heavy poles 
I put in to hold them up, they were laid 
as flat as though the German cavalry had 
passed over them. I was heart-broken, 
but Pere only shrugged his shoulders and 
remarked: "If one will live on the top 
of a hill facing the north what can one 
expect? " And I had no reply to make. 
Fortunately the wind can't blow my pano- 
rama away, though at present I don't 
often look out at it. I content myself by 
playing in the garden on the south side, 
and, if I go out at all, it is to walk through 
the orchards and look over the valley of 
the Morin, towards the south. 

My, but I 'm cold — too cold to tell you 
about. The ends of my fingers hurt the 
keys of my machine. 

[ 55 ] 



VI 

November 28, 1914 
I AM sorry that, as you say in your letter 
of October 16, just received, you are dis- 
appointed that I " do not write you more 
about the war." Dear child, I am not see- 
ing any of it. We are settled down here 
to a life that is nearly normal — much 
more normal than I dreamed could be pos- 
sible forty miles from the front. We are 
still in the zone of military operations, and 
probably shall be until spring, at least. 
Our communications with the outside world 
are frequently cut. We get our mail with 
great irregularity. Even our local mail 
goes to Meaux, and is held there five days, 
as the simplest way of exercising the cen- 
sorship. It takes nearly ten days to get 
an answer to a letter to Paris. 

All that I see which actually reminds 
me of the war — now that we are used to 
the absence of the men — I see on the 
route nationale, when I drive down to 
Couilly. Across the fields it is a short 
and pretty walk. Amelie makes it in 
twenty minutes. I could, if it were not 
for climbing that terrible hill to get back. 

[ 56 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Besides, the mud is inches deep. I have 
a queer little four-wheeled cart, covered, 
if I want to unroll the curtains. I call 
it my perambulator, and really, with Nin- 
ette hitched in, I am like an overgrown 
baby in its baby carriage, and any nurse 
I ever knew would push a perambulator 
faster than that donkey drags mine. Yet 
it just suits my mood. I sit comfortably 
in it, and travel slowly — time being non- 
existent — so slowly that I can watch the 
wheat sprout, and gaze at the birds and 
the view and the clouds. I do hold on 
to the reins — just for looks — though I 
have no need to, and I doubt if Ninette 
suspects me of doing anything so foolish. 
On the road I always meet officers rid- 
ing along, military cars flying along, army 
couriers spluttering along on motor-cycles, 
heavy motor transports groaning up hill, 
or thundering down, and now and then a 
long train of motor-ambulances. Almost 
any morning, at nine, I can see the long 
line of camions carrying the revitaillement 
towards the front, and the other afternoon, 
as I was driving up the hill, I met a train 
of ambulances coming down. The big 
grey things slid, one after another, around 
the curve of the Demi-Lune, and simply 
flew by me, raising such a cloud of dust 
that after I had counted thirty, I found 

[ 57 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I could not see them, and the continual 
tooting of the horns began to make Nin- 
ette nervous — she had never seen any- 
thing like that before ■ — so, for fear she 
might do some trick she never had done 
in her life, like shying, and also for fear 
that the drivers, who were rushing by ex- 
actly in the middle of the road, might not 
see me in the dust, or a car might skid, I 
slid out, and led my equipage the rest of 
the way. I do assure you these are actually 
all the war signs we see, though, of course, 
we still hear the cannon. 

But, though we don't see it, we feel it 
in many ways. My neighbors feel it 
more than I do ! For one example — the 
fruit crop this year has been an absolute 
loss. Luckily the cassis got away before 
the war was declared, but we hear it was 
a loss to the buyers, and it was held in 
the Channel ports, necessarily, and was 
spoiled. But apples and pears had no 
market. In ordinary years purchasers 
come to buy the trees, and send their own 
pickers and packers, and what was not 
sold in that way went to the big Saturday 
market at Meaux. This year there is no 
market at Meaux. The town is still partly 
empty, and the railroad cannot carry 
produce now. This is a tragic loss to the 
small cultivator, though, as yet, he is not 

[ 58 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

suffering, and he usually puts all such win- 
nings into his stocking. 

We still have no coal to speak of. I 
am burning wood in the salon — and 
green wood at that. The big blaze — 
when I can get it — suits my house better 
than the salamandre did. But I cannot 
get a temperature above 42 Fahrenheit. 
I am used to sixty, and I remember you 
used to find that too low in Paris. I blister 
my face, and freeze my back, just as we 
used to in the old days of glorious Octo- 
ber at the farm in New Sharon, where my 
mother was born, and where I spent my 
summers and part of the autumn in my 
school-days. 

You might think it would be easy to get 
wood. It is not. The army takes a lot 
of it, and those who, in ordinary winters, 
have wood to sell, have to keep it for 
themselves this year. Pere has cut down 
all the old trees he could find — old prune 
trees, old apple trees, old chestnut trees 
— and it is not the best of firewood. I 
hated to see even that done, but he claimed 
that he wanted to clear a couple of pieces 
of land, and I try to believe him. Did 
you ever burn green wood? If you have, 
enough said! 

Unluckily — since you expect me to 
write often — I am a creature of habit. 

[ 59 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I never could write as you can, with a pad 
on my knees, huddled over the fire. I sup- 
pose that I could have acquired the habit 
if I had begun my education at the Sor- 
bonne, instead of polishing off there. I 
remember when I first began to haunt 
that university, eighteen years ago, how 
amazed I was to see the students huddled 
into a small space with overcoats and hats 
on their knees, a note-book on top of 
them, an ink-pot in one hand and a pen 
in the other, and, in spite of obstacles, ab- 
sorbed in the lecture. I used to wonder 
if they had ever heard of " stylos," even 
while I understood, as I never had done 
before, the real love of learning that 
marks the race. Alas ! I have to be half- 
way comfortable before I can half accom- 
plish anything. 

I am thankful to say that the tempera- 
ture has been moderating a little, and life 
about me has been active. One day it was 
the big threshing-machine, and the work 
was largely done by women, and the air 
was full of throbbing and dust. Yester- 
day it was the cider-press, and I stood 
about, at Amelie's, in the sun, half the 
afternoon, watching the motor hash the 
apples, and the press squeeze out the yel- 
low juice, which rushed foaming into big 
vats. Did you ever drink cider like that? 

[ 60 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

It is the only way I like it. It carried me 
back to rny girlhood and the summers in 
the Sandy River valley. I don't know why 
it is, of late, that my mind turns so often 
back to those days, and with such affection. 
Perhaps it is only because I find myself 
once more living in the country. It may 
be true that life is a circle, and as one 
approaches the end the beginning becomes 
visible, and associated with both the be- 
ginning and end of mine there is a war. 
However it is to be explained, there re- 
mains the fact that my middle distances 
are getting wiped out. 

In these still nights, when I cannot sleep, 
I think more often than of anything else 
of the road running down the hill by the 
farm at New Sharon, and of the sounds 
of the horses and wagons as they came 
down and crossed the wooden bridge over 
the brook, and of the voices — so strange 
in the night — as they passed. There 
were more night sounds in those memories 
than I ever hear here — more crickets, 
more turnings over of Nature, asleep or 
awake. I rarely hear many night sounds 
here. From sundown, when people go 
clattering by in their wooden shoes from 
the fields, to daylight, when the birds 
awake, all is silence. I looked out into 
the moonlight before I closed my shutters 

[ 61 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

last night. I might have been alone in 
the world. Yet I like it. 

The country is lovely here in winter — 
so different from what I remember of it 
at home. My lawn is still green, so is the 
corbeille d J argent in the garden border, 
which is still full of silvery bunches of 
bloom, and will be all winter. The vio- 
lets are still in bloom. Even the trees 
here never get black as they do in New 
England, for the trunks and branches are 
always covered with green moss. That is 
the dampness. Of course, we never have 
the dry invigorating cold that makes a 
New England winter so wonderful. I 
don't say that one is more beautiful than 
the other, only that each is different in its 
charm. After all, Life, wherever one sees 
it, is, if one has eyes, a wonderful pageant, 
the greatest spectacular melodrama I can 
imagine. I 'm glad to have seen it. I 
have not always had an orchestra stall, 
but what of that? One ought to see things 
at several angles and from several eleva- 
tions, you know. 



1 62 ] 



VII 

• December 5, 1914 

We have been having some beautiful 
weather. 

Yesterday Amelie and I took advantage 
of it to make a pilgrimage across the 
Marne, to decorate the graves on the 
battlefield at Chambry. Crowds went out 
on All Soul's Day, but I never like doing 
anything, even making a pilgrimage, in a 
crowd. 

You can realize how near it is, and what 
an easy trip it will be in normal times, 
when I tell you that we left Esbly for 
Meaux at half past one — only ten minutes 
by train — and were back in the station 
at Meaux at quarter to four, and had 
visited Monthyon, Villeroy, Neufmontier, 
Penchard, Chauconin, Barcy, Chambry, 
and Vareddes. 

The authorities are not very anxious to 
have people go out there. Yet nothing to 
prevent is really done. It only takes a 
little diplomacy. If I had gone to ask for 
a passport, nine chances out of ten it 
would have been refused me. I happened 
to know that the wife of the big livery- 

[ 63 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

stable man at Meaux, an energetic — and, 
incidentally, a handsome — woman, who 
took over the business when her husband 
joined his regiment, had a couple of auto- 
mobiles, and would furnish me with all the 
necessary papers. They are not taxi-cabs, 
but handsome touring-cars. Her chauffeur 
carries the proper papers. It seemed to 
me a very loose arrangement, from a mili- 
tary point of view, even although I was 
assured that she did not send out anyone 
she did not know. However, I decided to 
take advantage of it. 

While we were waiting at the garage 
for the car to be got out, and the chauffeur 
to change his coat, I had a chance to talk 
with a man who had not left Meaux dur- 
ing the battle, and I learned that there 
were several important families who had 
remained with the Archbishop and aided 
him to organize matters for saving the 
city, if possible, and protect the property 
of those who had fled, and that the meas- 
ures which those sixty citizens, with Arch- 
bishop Marbeau at their head, took for 
the safety of the poor, the care for the 
wounded and dead, is already one of the 
proudest documents in the annals of the 
historic town. 

But never mind all these things, which 
the guides will recite for you, I imagine, 

[ 6 4 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

when you come over to make the grand 
tour of Fighting France, for on these 
plains about Meaux you will have to start 
your pilgrimage. 

I confess that my heart beat a little too 
rapidly when, as we ran out of Meaux 
and took the route departmental of Sen- 
lis, a soldier stepped to the middle of the 
road and held up his gun — baionette au 
canon. 

We stopped. 

Were w 7 e after all going to be turned 
back? I had the guilty knowledge that 
there w T as no reason w T hy we should not 
be. I tried to look magnificently uncon- 
cerned as I leaned forward to smile at the 
soldier. I might have spared myself the 
effort. He never even glanced inside the 
car. The examination of the papers was 
the most cursory thing imaginable — a 
mere formality. The chauffeur simply 
held his stamped paper towards the guard. 
The guard merely glanced at it, lifted his 
gun, motioned us to proceed — and we 
proceeded. 

It may amuse you to know that we never 
even showed the paper again. We did 
meet two gendarmes on bicycles, but they 
nodded and passed us without stopping. 

The air was soft, like an early autumn 
day, rather than December as you know 

[ 6$ ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

it. There was a haze in the air, but be- 
hind it the sun shone. You know what 
that French haze is, and what it does to 
the world, and how, through it, one gets 
the sort of landscape painters love. With 
how many of our pilgrimages together it 
is associated! We have looked through 
it at the walls of Provins, when the lindens 
were rosy with the first rising of the sap ; 
we have looked through it at the circular 
panorama from the top of the ruined 
tower of Montlhery; we have looked 
through it across Jean Jacques Rousseau's 
country, from the lofty terrace of Mont- 
morency, and from the platform in front 
of the prison of Philippe Auguste's un- 
happy Danish wife, at Etampes, across the 
valley of the Juine; and from how many 
other beautiful spots, not to forget the 
view up the Seine from the terrace of the 
Tuileries. 

Sometime, I hope, we shall see these 
plains of the Marne together. When we 
do, I trust it will be on just such another 
atmospheric day as yesterday. 

As our road wound up the hill over the 
big paving-stones characteristic of the en- 
virons of all the old towns of France, 
everything looked so peaceful, so pretty, 
so normal, that it was hard to realize that 
we were moving towards the front, and 
[ 66 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

were only about three miles from the point 
where the German invasion was turned 
back almost three months ago to a day, 
and it was the more difficult to realize as 
we have not heard the cannon for days. 

A little way out of Meaux, we took a 
road to the west for Chauconin, the near- 
est place to us which was bombarded, and 
from a point in the road I looked back 
across the valley of the Marne, and I 
saw a very pretty white town, with red 
roofs, lying on the hillside. I asked the 
chauffeur : 

" What village is that over there? " 

He glanced around and replied: 
" Quincy." 

It was my town. I ought not to have 
been surprised. Of course I knew that if 
I could see Chauconin so clearly from my 
garden, why, Chauconin could see me. 
Only, I had not thought of it. 

Amelie and I looked back with great 
interest. It did look so pretty, and it is 
not pretty at all — the least pretty village 
on this side of the hill. " Distance " does, 
indeed, " lend enchantment." When you 
come to see me I shall show you Quincy 
from the other side of the Marne, and 
never take you into its streets. Then 
you '11 always remember it as a fairy town. 

It was not until we were entering into 

[ 6 7 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Chauconin that we saw the first signs of 
war. The approach through the fields, 
already ploughed, and planted with winter 
grain, looked the very last thing to be as- 
sociated with war. Once inside the little 
village — we always speak of it as " le 
petit Chauconin " — we found destruction 
enough. One whole street of houses was 
literally gutted. The walls stand, but the 
roofs are off and doors and windows gone, 
while the shells seem burned out. The 
destruction of the big farms seems to have 
been pretty complete. There they stood, 
long walls of rubble and plaster, breeched; 
ends of farm buildings gone; and many 
only a heap of rubbish. The surprising 
thing to me was to see here a house de- 
stroyed, and, almost beside it, one not even 
touched. That seemed to prove that the 
struggle here was not a long one, and that 
a comparatively small number of shells 
had reached it. 

Neufmortier was in about the same con- 
dition. It was a sad sight, but not at all 
ugly. Ruins seem to " go " with the 
French atmosphere and background. It 
all looked quite natural, and I had to make 
an effort to shake myself into a becoming 
frame of mind. If you had been with me 
I should have asked you to pinch me, and 
remind me that " all this is not yet ancient 
[ 68 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

history," and that a little sentimentality 
would have become me. But Amelie 
would never have understood me. 

It was not until we were driving east 
again to approach Penchard that a full 
realization of it came to me. Penchard 
crowns the hill just in the centre of the 
line which I see from the garden. It was 
one of the towns bombarded on the even- 
ing of September 5, and, so far as I can 
guess, the destruction was done by the 
French guns which drove the Germans out 
that night. 

They say the Germans slept there the 
night of September 4, and were driven out 
the next day by the French soixante-qninze, 
which trotted through Chauconin into Pen- 
chard by the road we had just come over. 

I enclose you a carte postale of a bat- 
tery passing behind the apse of the village 
church, just as a guarantee of good faith. 

But all signs of the horrors of those 
days have been obliterated. Penchard is 
the town in which the Germans exercised 
their taste for wilful nastiness, of which 
I wrote you weeks ago. It is a pretty little 
village, beautifully situated, commanding 
the slopes to the Marne on one side, and 
the wide plains of Bar.cy and Chambry on 
the other. It is prosperous looking, the 
home of sturdy farmers and the small 

[ 69 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

rentiers. It has an air of humble thrift, 
with now and then a pretty garden, and 
here and there suggestions of a certain 
degree of greater prosperity, an air 
which, in France, often conceals unex- 
pected wealth. 

You need not look the places up unless 
you have a big map. No guide-book ever 
honored them. 

From Penchard we ran a little out to 
the west at the foot of the hill, on top of 
which stand the white walls of Montyon, 
from which, on September 5, we had seen 
the first smoke of battle. 

I am sure that I wrote some weeks ago 
how puzzled I was when I read Joffre's 
famous ordre du jour, at the beginning of 
the Marne offensive, to find that it was 
dated September 6, whereas we had seen 
the battle begin on the 5th. Here I found 
what I presume to be the explanation, 
which proves that the offensive along the 
rest of the line on the 6th had been a 
continuation simply of what we saw that 
Saturday afternoon. 

At the foot of the hill crowned by the 
walls of Montyon lies Villeroy — today 
the objective point for patriotic pilgrim- 
ages. There, on the 5th of September, 
the 276th Regiment was preparing its soup 
for lunch, when, suddenly, from the trees 

[ 70 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

on the heights, German shells fell amongst 
them, and food was forgotten, while the 
French at St. Soupplet on the other side 
of the hill, as well as those at Villeroy, 
suddenly found themselves in the thick of 
a fight — the battle we saw. 

They told me at Villeroy that many of 
the men in the regiments engaged were 
from this region, and here the civilians 
dropped their work in the fields and 
snatched up guns which the dead or 
wounded soldiers let fall and entered the 
fight beside their uniformed neighbors. 
I give you that picturesque and likely de- 
tail for what it is worth. 

At the foot of the hill between Mon- 
tyon and Villeroy lies the tomb in which 
two hundred of the men who fell here are 
buried together. Among them is Charles 
Peguy, the poet, who wore a lieutenant's 
stripes, and was referred to by his com- 
panions on that day as "nn glorieux foil 
dans sa bravoure." This long tomb, with 
its crosses and flags and flowers, was the 
scene on All Soul's Day of the commemo- 
rative ceremony in honor of the victory, 
and marks not only the beginning of the 
battle, but the beginning of its triumph. 

From this point we drove back to the 
east, almost along the line of battle, to 
the hillside hamlet of Barcy, the saddest 

[ 71 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

scene of desolation on this end of the great 
fight. 

It was a humble little village, grouped 
around a dear old church, with a graceful 
square tower supporting a spire. The 
little church faced a small square, from 
which the principal street runs down the 
hill to the open country across which the 
French " push " advanced. No house on 
this street escaped. Some of them are 
absolutely destroyed. The church is a 
mere shell. Its tower is pierced with huge 
holes. Its bell lies, a wreck, on the floor 
beneath its tower. The roof has fallen 
in, a heaped-up mass of debris in the nave 
beneath. Its windows are gone, and there 
are gaping wounds in its side walls. 
Oddly enough, the Chemin de la Croix is 
intact, and some of the peasants look on 
that as a miracle, in spite of the fact that 
the High Altar is buried under a mass of 
tiles and plaster. 

The doors being gone, one could look 
in, over the temporary barrier, to the 
wreck inside, and by putting a donation 
into the contribution box for the restaura- 
tion fund it was possible to enter — at 
one's own risk — by a side door. It was 
hardly worth while, as one could see no 
more than was visible from the doorways, 
and it looked as if at any minute the whole 

[ 72 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

edifice would crumble. However, Amelie 
wanted to go inside, and so we did. 

We entered through the mairie, which 
is at one side, into a small courtyard, 
where the school children were playing 
under the propped-up walls as gaily as if 
there had never been a bombardment. 

The mairie had fared little better than 
the church, and the schoolroom, which has 
its home in it, had a temporary roofing, 
the upper part being wrecked. 

The best idea that I got of the destruc- 
tion was, however, from a house almost 
opposite the church. It was only a shell, 
its walls alone standing. As its windows 
and doors had been blown out, we could 
look in from the street to the interior of 
what had evidently been a comfortable 
country house. It was now like an uncov- 
ered box, in the centre of which there was 
a conical shaped heap of ashes as high 
as the top of the fireplace. We could see 
where the stairs had been, but its entire 
contents had been burned down to a heap 
of ashes — burned as thoroughly as wood 
in a fireplace. I could not have believed 
in such absolute destruction if I had not 
seen it. 

While we were gazing at the wreck I 
noticed an old woman leaning against the 
wall and watching us. Out of her weather- 

[ 73 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

beaten, time-furrowed old face looked a 
pair of dark eyes, red-rimmed and blurred 
with much weeping. She was rubbing her 
distorted old hands together nervously as 
she watched us. It was inevitable that I 
should get into conversation with her, and 
discover that this wreck had been, for 
years, her home, that she had lived there 
all alone, and that everything she had in 
the world — her furniture, her clothing, 
and her savings — had been burned in the 
house. 

You can hardly understand that unless 
you know these people. They keep their 
savings hidden. It is the well-known old 
story of the French stocking which paid 
the war indemnity of 1870. They have no 
confidence in banks. The State is the only 
one they will lend to, and the fact is one 
of the secrets of French success. 

If you knew these people as I do, you 
would understand that an old woman of 
that peasant type, ignorant of the meaning 
of war, would hardly be likely to leave her 
house, no matter how many times she was 
ordered out, until shells began to fall about 
her. Even then, as she was rather deaf, 
she probably did not realize what was 
happening, and went into the street in such 
fear that she left everything behind her. 

From Barcy we drove out into the plain, 

[ 74 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

and took the direction of Chambry, fol- 
lowing the line of the great and decisive 
fight of September 6 and 7. 

We rolled slowly across the beautiful 
undulating country of grain and beet fields. 
We had not gone far when, right at the 
edge of the road, we came upon an isolated 
mound, with a rude cross at its head, and 
a tiny tricolore at its foot — the first 
French grave on the plain. 

We motioned the chauffeur to stop, and 
we went on, on foot. 

First the graves were scattered, for the 
boys lie buried just where they fell — 
cradled in the bosom of the mother coun- 
try that nourished them, and for whose 
safety they laid down their lives. As we 
advanced they became more numerous, 
until we reached a point where, as far as 
we could see, in every direction, floated 
the little tricolore flags, like fine flowers 
in the landscape. They made tiny spots 
against the far-off horizon line, and groups 
like beds of flowers in the foreground, and 
we knew that, behind the skyline, there 
were more. 

Here and there was a haystack with 
one grave beside it, and again there would 
be one, usually partly burned, almost en- 
circled with the tiny flags which said: 
" Here sleep the heroes." 

[ 75 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

It was a disturbing and a thrilling sight. 
I give you my word, as I stood there, I 
envied them. It seemed to me a fine thing 
to lie out there in the open, in the soil 
of the fields their simple death has made 
holy, the duty well done, the dread over, 
each one just where he fell defending his 
mother-land, enshrined forever in the lov- 
ing memory of the land he had saved, in 
graves to be watered for years, not only 
by the tears of those near and dear to 
them, but by those of the heirs to their 
glory — the children of the coming gener- 
ation of free France. 

You may know a finer way to go. I 
do not. Surely, since Death is, it is better 
than dying of old age between clean sheets. 

Near the end of the route we came to 
the little walled cemetery of Chambry, 
the scene of one of the most desperate 
struggles of the 6th and 7th of September. 

You know what the humble village 
burying-grounds are like. Its wall is about 
six feet high, of plaster and stone, with 
an entrance on the road to the village. To 
the west and northwest the walls are on 
the top of a bank, high above the cross- 
roads. I do not know the position of the 
pursuing French army. The chauffeur 
who drove us could not enlighten us. As 
near as I could guess, from the condition 

[ 76 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

of the walls, I imagine that the French 
artillery must have been in the direction 
of Penchard, on the wooded hills. 

The walls are pierced with gun holes, 
about three feet apart, and those on the 
west and southwest are breeched by can- 
non and shell-fire. Here, after the posi- 
tion had been several times stormed by 
artillery, the Zouaves made one of the 
most brilliant bayonet charges of the day, 
dashing up the steep banks and through 
the breeched walls. Opposite the gate is 
another steep bank where can still be seen 
the improvised gun positions of the French 
when they pushed the retreat across the 
plain. 

The cemetery is filled with new graves 
against the wall, for many of the officers 
are buried here — nearly all of the regi- 
ment of Zouaves, which was almost wiped 
out in the charge before the position was 
finally carried, — it was taken and lost 
several times. 

From here we turned east again towards 
Vareddes, along a fine road lined with 
enormous old trees, one of the handsomest 
roads of the department. Many of these 
huge trees have been snapped off by shells 
as neatly as if they were mere twigs. 
Along the road, here and there, were iso- 
lated graves. 

[ 77 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Vareddes had a tragic experience. The 
population was shockingly abused by the 
Germans. Its aged priest and many. other 
old men were carried away, and many 
were shot, and the town badly damaged. 

We had intended to go through Vared- 
des to the heights beyond, where the he- 
roes of the 133d, 246th, 289th, and of the 
regiment which began the battle at Ville- 
roy — the 276th — are buried. But the 
weather had changed, and a cold drizzle 
began to fall, and I saw no use in going 
on in a closed car, so we turned back to 
Meaux. 

It was still light when we reached 
Meaux, so we gave a look at the old mills 
— and put up a paean of praise that they 
were not damaged beyond repair — on 
our way to the station. 

As we came back to Esbly I strained my 
eyes to look across to the hill on which 
my house stands, — I could just see it as 
we crawled across the bridge at the Iles- 
les-Villenoy, — and felt again the miracle 
of the battle which swept so near to us. 

In my innermost heart I had a queer 
sensation of the absurdity of my relation 
to life. Fate so often shakes its fist in 
my face, only to withhold the blow within 
a millimetre of my nose. Perhaps I am 
being schooled to meet it yet. 

[ 78 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I brought back one fixed impression — 
how quickly Time had laid its healing hand 
on this one battlefield. I don't know what 
will be the effect out there where the ter- 
rible trench war is going on. But here, 
where the fighting turned, never to return 
— at least we believe it never will — it 
has left no ugly traces. The fields are 
cleaned, the roads are repaired. Rain has 
fallen on ruins and washed off all the 
marks of smoke. Even on the road to 
Vareddes the thrifty French have already 
carried away and fagotted the wrecked 
trees, and already the huge, broken trunks 
are being uprooted, cut into proper length, 
and piled neatly by the roadside to be 
seasoned before being carted away. There 
was nothing raw about the scene any- 
where. The villages were sad, because so 
silent and empty. 

I had done my best to get a tragic im- 
pression. I had not got it. I had brought 
back instead an impression heroic, uplift- 
ing, altogether inspiring. 

By the time you come over, and I lead 
you out on that pilgrimage, it will be even 
more beautiful. But, alas, I am afraid 
that day is a long way off. 



[ 79 ] 



VIII 

December 30, 1914 

I would wish above all things, if some 
fairy gave me the chance, to be a hiber- 
nating animal this year, during which the 
weather has almost called an armistice 
along our front, locked from the Swiss 
border to the sea. 

There is but one consolation, and that 
is that, costly and terrible as have been the 
first four months of the war, three of the 
great aims of the German strategy have 
been buried too deep ever to be dug up — 
their hope of a short war is gone; they 
did not get to Paris, and now know that 
they never will; they did not, and never 
can get to Calais, and, in spite of their re- 
markable feats, and their mighty strength, 
in the face of those three facts even their 
arrogance cannot write " victory " against 
their arms. 

I have to confess that I am almost as 
cold as the boys out there in the rain and 
the mud. I have managed to get a little 
coal — or what is called coal this year. 
It is really charbon de forge — a lot of 
damp, black dust with a few big lumps in 

[ so ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

it, which burns with a heavy, smelly, yellow 
smoke. In normal times one would never 
dignify it by the name of coal, but today 
we are thankful to get it, and pay for it 
as if it were gold. It will only burn in 
the kitchen stove, and every time we put 
any on the fire, my house, seen from the 
garden, appears like some sort of a fac- 
tory. Please, therefore, imagine me liv- 
ing in the kitchen. You know the size of 
a compact French kitchen. It is rather 
close quarters for a lady of large ideas. 

The temperature of the rest of the 
house is down almost to zero. Luckily 
it is not a cold winter, but it is very damp, 
as it rains continually. I have an arm- 
chair there, a footstool, and use the 
kitchen table as a desk; and even then, to 
keep fairly warm, I almost sit on top of 
the stove, and I do now and then put my 
feet in the oven. 

I assure you that going to bed is a 
ceremony. Amelie comes and puts two 
hot bricks in the foot of the bed. I un- 
dress in the kitchen, put on felt shoes, 
and a big wrap, and, with my hotwater 
bottle in one hand and a book in the other, 
I make a dash for the arctic regions, and 
Amelie tidies up the kitchen, locks the 
doors behind her, and takes the keys away 
with her. 

[ 81 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I am cosy and comfy in bed, and I stay 
there until Amelie has built the fire and 
got the house in order in the morning. 

My getting up beats the lever de Marie 
Antoinette in some of its details, though 
she was accustomed to it, and probably 
minded less than I do. I am not really 
complaining, you know. But you want to 
know about my life — so from that you 
can imagine it. I shall get acclimated, of 
course. I know that. 

I was in Paris for Christmas — not be- 
cause I wanted to go, but because the few 
friends I have left there felt that I needed 
a change, and clinched the matter by think- 
ing that they needed me. Besides I 
wanted to get packages to the English boys 
who were here in September, and it was 
easier to do it from Paris than from here. 

While I was waiting for the train at 
Esbly I had a conversation with a woman 
who chanced to sit beside me on a bench 
on the quai, which seemed to me significant. 

Today everyone talks to everyone. All 
the barriers seem to be down. We were 
both reading the morning paper, and so, 
naturally, got to talking. I happened to 
have an English paper, in which there was 
a brief account of the wonderful dash 
made by the Royal Scots at Petit Bois and 
the Gordon Highlanders at Maeselsyeed 
' [ 82 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Spur, under cover of the French and Brit- 
ish artillery, early in the month, and I 
translated it for her. It is a moral duty 
to let the French people get a glimpse of 
the wonderful fighting quality of the boys 
under the Union Jack. 

In the course of the conversation she 
said, what was self-evident, " You are not 
French? " I told her that I was an Amer- 
ican. Then she asked me if I had any 
children, and received a negative reply. 

She sighed, and volunteered that she 
was a widow with an only son who was 
" out there," and added: " We are all of 
us French women of a certain class so 
stupid when we are young. I adore chil- 
dren. But I thought I could only afford 
to have one, as I wanted to do so much 
for him. Now if I lose that one, what 
have I to live for? I am not the sort of 
woman who can marry again. My boy 
is a brave boy. If he dies he will die like 
a brave man, and not begrudge the life 
he gives for his country. I am a French 
mother and must offer him as becomes his 
mother. But it was silly of me to have 
but this one. I know, now that it is too 
late, that I could have done as well, and 
it may be better, with several, for I have 
seen the possibilities demonstrated among 
my friends who have three or four." 

c 8 3 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Of course I did not say that the more 
she had, the more she might have had to 
lose, because I thought that if, in the face 
of a disaster like this, French women were 
thinking such thoughts — and if one does, 
hundreds may — it might be significant. 

I had a proof of this while in Paris. 
I went to a house where I have been a 
visitor for years to get some news of a 
friend who had an apartment there. I 
opened the door to the concierge's loge 
to put my question. I stopped short. In 
the window, at the back of the half dark 
room, sat the concierge, whom I had 
known for nearly twenty years, a brave, 
intelligent, fragile woman. She was sit- 
ting there in her black frock, gently rock- 
ing herself backward and forward in her 
chair. I did not need to put a question. 
One knows in these days what the unac- 
customed black dress means, and I knew 
that the one son I had seen grow from 
childhood, for whom she and the father 
had sacrificed everything that he might be 
educated, for whom they had pinched and 
saved — was gone. 

I said the few words one can say — I 
could not have told five minutes later what 
they were — and her only reply was like 
the speech of the woman of another class 
that I had met at Esbly. 

[ 8 4 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

" I had but the one. That was my folly. 
Now I have nothing — and I have a long 
time to live alone." 

It would have been easy to weep with 
her, but they don't weep. I have never 
seen fewer tears in a great calamity. I 
have read in newspapers sent me from the 
States tales of women in hysterics, of 
women fainting as they bade their men 
goodbye. I have never seen any of it. 
Something must be wrong with my vision, 
or my lines must have fallen in brave 
places. I can only speak of what I see 
and hear, and tears and hysterics do not 
come under my observation. 

I did not do anything interesting in 
Paris. It was cold and grey and sad. I 
got my packages off to the front. They 
went through quickly, especially those sent 
by the English branch post-office, near the 
Etoile, and when I got home, I found the 
letters of thanks from the boys awaiting 
me. Among them was one from the little 
corporal who had pulled down my flags in 
September, who wrote in the name of the 
C company, Yorkshire Light Infantry, and 
at the end of the letter he said: "I am 
sorry to tell you that Captain Simpson 
is dead. He was killed leading his com- 
pany in a charge, and all his men grieved 
for him." 

[ 85 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

That gave me a deep pang. I remem- 
bered his stern, bronzed, but kindly face, 
which lighted up so with a smile, as he 
sat with me at tea on that memorable 
Wednesday afternoon, and of all that he 
did so simply to relieve the strain on our 
nerves that trying day. I know nothing 
about him — who he was — what he had 
for family — he was just a brave, kindly, 
human being, who had met me for a few 
hours, passed on — and passed out. He 
is only one of thousands, but he is the one 
whose sympathetic voice I had heard and 
who, in all the hurry and fatigue of those 
hard days, had had time to stop and con- 
sole us here, and whom I had hoped to 
see again; and I grieved with his men for 
him. 

I could not write last week. I had no 
heart to send the usual greetings of the sea- 
son. Words still mean something to me, 
and when I sat down, from force of habit, 
to write the letters I have been accustomed 
to send at this season, I simply could not. 
It seemed to me too absurd to even cele- 
brate the anniversary of the days when 
the angel hosts sang in the skies their 
" Peace on earth, good will to men " to 
herald the birth of Him who added to 
religion the command, " Love one an- 
other," and man, only forty miles away, 
[ 86 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

occupied in wholesale slaughter. We have 
a hard time juggling to make our preten- 
sions and our acts fit. 

If this cold and lack of coal continues 
I am not likely to see much or write much 
until the spring campaign opens. Here we 
still hear the guns whenever Rheims or 
Soissons are bombarded, but no one ever ; 
for a minute, dreams that they will ever 
come nearer. 

Though I could not send you any greet- 
ings last week, I can say, with all my 
heart, may 191 5 bring us all peace and 
contentment ! 



[ s? ] 



IX 

January 21, 191 5 
I have been trying to feel in a humor 
to write all this month, but what with the 
changeable weather, a visit to Paris, and 
the depression of the terrible battle at 
Soissons, — so near to us — I have not 
had the courage. All the same, I frankly 
confess that it has not been as bad as I 
expected. I begin to think things are never 
as bad as one expects. 

Do you know that it is not until now 
that I have had a passport from my own 
country? I have never needed one. No 
one here has ever asked me for one, and 
it was only when I was in Paris a week 
ago that an American friend was so aghast 
at the idea that I had, in case of accident, 
no real American protection, that I went 
to the Embassy, for the first time in my 
life, and asked for one, and seriously took 
the oath of allegiance. I took it so very 
seriously that it was impressed on me how 
careless we, who live much abroad, get 
about such things. 

I know that many years ago, when I 
was first leaving the States, it was sug- 
[ 88 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

gested that such a document might be use- 
ful as an identification, and I made out my 
demand, and it was sent after me to Rome. 
I must have taken the oath at that time, 
but it was in days of peace, and it made 
no impression on me. But this time I got 
a great big choke in my throat, and looked 
up at the Stars and Stripes over the desk, 
and felt more American than I ever felt 
in my life. It cost me two dollars, and 
I felt the emotion was well worth the 
money, even at a high rate of exchange. 

I did practically nothing else in Paris, 
except to go to one or two of the hospi- 
tals where I had friends at work. 

Paris is practically normal. A great 
many of the American colony who fled in 
September to Bordeaux and to London 
have returned, and the streets are more 
lively, and the city has settled down to 
live through the war with outward calm 
if no gaiety. I would not have believed 
it would be possible, in less than five 
months, and with things going none too 
well at the front, that the city could have 
achieved this attitude. 

When I got back, I found that, at least, 
our ambulance was open. 

It is only a small hospital, and very 
poor. It is set up in the salle de recrea- 
tion of the commune, which is beside the 

[ 8 9 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

church and opposite the mairie, backed 
up against the wall of the park of the 
Chateau de Quincy. It is really a branch 
of the military hospital at Meaux, and it 
is under the patronage of the occupant of 
the Chateau de Quincy, who supplies such 
absolute necessities as cannot be provided 
from the government allowance of two 
francs a day per bed. There are twenty- 
eight beds. 

Most of the beds and bedding were 
contributed by the people in the commune. 
The town crier went about, beating his 
drum, and making his demand at the cross- 
roads, and everyone who could spare a 
bed or a mattress or a blanket carried his 
contribution to the salle. The wife of the 
mayor is the directress, the doctor from 
Crecy-en-Brie cares for the soldiers, with 
the assistance of Soeur Jules and Soeur 
Marie, who had charge of the town dis- 
pensary, and four girls of the Red Cross 
Society living in the commune. 

The installation is pathetically simple, 
but the room is large and comfortable, 
with four rows of beds, and extra ones 
on the stage, and it is heated by a big 
stove. Naturally it gets more sick and 
slightly wounded than serious cases, but 
the boys seem very happy, and they are 
affectionately cared for. There is a big 

[ 90 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

court for the convalescents, and in the 
spring they will have the run of the park. 

About the twelfth we had a couple of 
days of the worst cannonading since Octo- 
ber. It was very trying. I stood hours 
on the lawn listening, but it was not for 
several days that we knew there had been 
a terrible battle at Soissons, just forty 
miles north of us. 

There is a great difference of opinion 
as to how far we can hear the big guns, 
but an officer on the train the other day 
assured me that they could be heard, the 
wind being right, about one hundred kilo- 
metres — that is to say, eighty miles — so 
you can judge what it was like here, on 
the top of the hill, half that distance away 
by road, and considerably less in a direct 
line. 

Our official communique, as usual, gave 
us no details, but one of the boys in our 
town was wounded, and is in a near-by 
ambulance, where he has been seen by his 
mother; she brings back word that it was, 
as he called it, " a bloody slaughter in a 
hand-to-hand fight." But of course, noth- 
ing so far has been comparable to the 
British stand at Ypres. The little that 
leaks slowly out regarding that simply 
makes one's heart ache with the pain of 
it, only to rebound with the glory. 

[ 91 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Human nature is a wonderful thing, and 
the locking of the gate to Calais, by the 
English, will, I imagine, be, to the end of 
time, one of the epics, not of this war 
alone, but of all war. Talk about the 
" thin red line." The English stood, we 
are told, like a ribbon to stop the German 
hordes, — and stopped them. 

It almost seems a pity that, up to date, 
so much secrecy has been maintained. I 
was told last week in Paris that London 
has as yet no dream of the marvellous 
feat her volunteer army achieved — a feat 
that throws into the shade all the heroic 
defenses sung in the verse of ancient times. 
Luckily these achievements do not dull 
with years. 

On top of the Soissons affair came its 
result : the French retreat across the Aisne 
caused by the rising of the floods which 
carried away the bridges as fast as the 
engineers could build them, and cut off part 
of the French, even an ambulance, and, 
report says, the men left across the river 
without ammunition fought at the end 
with the butts of their broken guns, and 
finally with their fists. 

Of course this brings again that awful 
cry over the lack of preparation, and lack 
of ammunition. 

It is a foolish cry today, since the only 

[ 92 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

nation in the world ready for this war was 
the nation that planned and began it. 

Even this disaster — and there is no 
denying that it is one — does not daunt 
these wonderful people. They still see 
two things, the Germans did not get to 
Paris, nor have they got to Calais, so, in 
spite of their real feats of arms — one 
cannot deny those — an endeavor must be 
judged by its purpose, and, so judged, the 
Germans have, thus far, failed. Luckily 
the French race is big enough to see this 
and take heart of grace. God knows it 
needs to, and thank Him it can. 

Don't you imagine that I am a bit down. 
I am not. I am cold. But, when I think 
of the discomfort in the hurriedly con- 
structed trenches, where the men are in 
the water to their ankles, what does my 
being cold in a house mean? Just a record 
of discomfort as my part of the war, and 
it seems, day after day, less important. 
But oh, the monotony and boredom of 
it! Do you wonder that I want to 
hibernate? 



[ 93 ] 



X 

March 23, 191 5 

Can it be possible that it is two months 
since I wrote to you ? I could not realize 
it when I got your reproachful letter this 
morning. But I looked in my letter-book, 
and found that it was true. 

The truth is — I have nothing to write 
about. The winter and its discomforts do 
not inspire me any more than the news 
from the front does, and no need to tell 
you that does not make one talkative. 

It has been a damp and nasty and 
changeable winter — one of the most hor- 
rid I ever experienced. There has been 
almost no snow. Almost never has the 
ground frozen, and not only is there mud, 
mud everywhere, but freshets also. Today 
the Marne lies more like an open sea 
than a river across the fields in the valley. 
One can imagine what it is like out there 
in the trenches. 

We have occasional lovely sunny days, 
when it is warmer out-of-doors than in — 
and when those days came, I dug a bit in 
the dirt, planted tulips and sweet peas. 

Sometimes I have managed to get fuel, 

[ 94 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

and when that happened, I was ever so 
cosy in the house. Usually, when the 
weather was at its worst, I had none, and 
was as nicely uncomfortable as my worst 
enemy could ask. 

As a rule my days have been divided 
into two parts. In the forenoon I have 
hovered about the gate watching for the 
newspaper. In the afternoon I have re- 
chewed the news in the vain endeavor to 
extract something encouraging between the 
lines, — and failed. Up to date I have 
not found anything tangible to account for 
such hope as continues to " spring eternal " 
in all our breasts. It springs, however, the 
powers be thanked. At present it is as 
big an asset as France has. 

A Zeppelin got to Paris last night. We 
are sorry, but we '11 forget it as soon as 
the women and children are buried. We 
are sorry, but it is not important. 

Things are a bit livened up here. Day 
before yesterday a regiment of dragoons 
arrived. They are billeted for three 
months. They are men from the midi, 
and, alas ! none too popular at this mo- 
ment. Still, they have been well received, 
and their presence does liven up the place. 

This morning, before I was up, I heard 
the horses trotting by for their morning 
exercise, and got out of bed to watch them 

[ 95 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

going along the hill. After the deadly 
tiresome waiting silence that has reigned 
here all winter, it made the hillside look 
like another place. 

Add to that the fact that the field work 
has begun, and that, when the sun shines, 
I can go out on the lawn and watch the 
ploughs turning up the ground, and see 
the winter grain making green patches 
everywhere — and I do not need to tell 
you that, with the spring, my thoughts will 
take a livelier turn. The country is begin- 
ning to look beautiful. I took my drive 
along the valley of the Grande Morin in 
the afternoon yesterday. The wide plains 
of the valley are being ploughed, and the 
big horses dragging ploughs across the 
wide fields did look lovely — just like a 
Millet or a Daubigny canvas. 

Since I wrote you I have been across to 
the battlefield again, to accompany a friend 
who came out from Paris. It was all like 
a new picture. The grain is beginning to 
sprout in tender green about the graves, 
which have been put in even better order 
than when I first saw them. The rude 
crosses of wood, from which the bark had 
not even been stripped, have been replaced 
by tall, carefully made crosses painted 
white, each marked with a name and num- 
ber. Each single grave and each group 

[ 96 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

of graves has a narrow footpath about it, 
and is surrounded by a wire barrier, while 
tiny approaches are arranged to each. 
Everywhere military signs are placed, re- 
minding visitors that these fields are pri- 
vate property, that they are all planted, 
and entreating all politely to conduct them- 
selves accordingly, which means literally, 
" keep off the wheat." 

The German graves, which, so far as 
I remember, were unmarked when I was 
out there nearly four months ago, have 
now black disks with the number in white. 

You must not mind if I am dull these 
days. I have been studying a map of the 
battle-front, which I got by accident. It 
is not inspiring. It makes one realize 
what there is ahead of us to do. It will 
be done — but at what a price ! 

Still, spring is here, and in spite of one's 
self, it helps. 



[ 97 ] 



XI 

May 18, 1915 

All through the month of April I in- 
tended to write, but I had not the courage. 

All our eyes were turned to the north 
where, from April 22 to Thursday, 
May 13 — five days ago — we knew the 
second awful battle at Ypres was going 
on. It seems to be over now. 

What with the new war deviltry, as- 
phyxiating gas — with which the battle 
began, and which beat back the line for 
miles by the terror of its surprise — and 
the destruction of the Lusitania on the 
7th, it has been a hard month. It has 
been a month which has seen a strange 
change of spirit here. 

I have tried to impress on you, from 
the beginning, that odd sort of optimism 
which has ruled all the people about me, 
even under the most trying episodes of 
the war. Up to now, the hatred of the 
Germans has been, in a certain sense, im- 
personal. It has been a racial hatred of 
a natural foe, an accepted evil, just as 
the uncalled-for war was. It had wrought 
a strange, unexpected, altogether remark- 

[ 98 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

able change in the French people. Their 
faces had become more serious, their bear- 
ing more heroic, their laughter less fre- 
quent, and their humor more biting. But, 
on the day, three weeks ago, when the 
news came of the first gas attack, before 
which the Zouaves and the Turcos fled with 
blackened faces and frothing lips, leaving 
hundreds of their companions dead and 
disfigured on the road to Langtmarck, 
there arose the first signs of awful hatred 
that I had seen. 

I frankly acknowledge that, considering 
the kind of warfare the world is seeing 
today, I doubt very much if it is worse to 
be asphyxiated than to be blown to pieces 
by an obus. But this new and devilish arm 
which Germany has added to the horrors 
of war seemed the last straw, and within 
a few weeks, I have seen grow up among 
these simple people the conviction that the 
race which planned and launched this great 
war has lost the very right to live; and 
that none of the dreams of the world 
which looked towards happiness can ever 
be realized while Prussia exists, even if 
the war lasts twenty years, and even if, be- 
fore it is over, the whole world has to 
take a hand in it. 

Into this feeling, ten days ago, came the 
news of the destruction of the Lusitania. 

[ 99 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

We got the news here on the 8th. It 
struck me dumb. 

For two or three days I kept quietly in 
the house. I believe the people about me 
expected the States to declare war in 
twenty-four hours. My neighbors who 
passed the gate looked at me curiously as 
they greeted me, and with less cordiality 
as the days went by. It was as if they 
pitied me, and yet did not want to be hard 
on me, or hold me responsible. 

You know well enough how I feel about 
these things. I have no sentimentality 
about the war. A person who had that, 
and tried to live here so near it, would 
be on the straight road to madness. If 
the world cannot stop war, if organized 
governments cannot arrive at a code of 
morals which applies to nations the same 
law of right and wrong which is enforced 
on individuals, why, the world and human- 
ity must take the consequences, and must 
reconcile themselves to the belief that such 
wars as this are as necessary as surgical 
operations. If one accepts that point of 
view — and I am ready to do so, — then 
every diabolical act of Germany will re- 
bound to the future good of the race, as 
it, from every point of view, justifies the 
hatred which is growing up against Ger- 
many. We are taught that it is right, 
[ ioo ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

moral, and, from every point of view, 
necessary to hate evil, and, in this 20th 
century, Germany is the most absolute 
synonym of evil that history has ever seen. 
Having stated that fact, it does not seem 
to me that I need say anything further on 
the subject. 

In the meantime, I have gone on imitat- 
ing the people about me. They are in- 
dustriously tilling their fields. I continue 
cutting my lawn, planting my dahlias, 
pruning my roses, tying up my flowering 
peas, and watching my California poppies 
grow like the weeds in the fields. 

When I am not doing that, with a pot 
in one hand, and the tongs in the other, 
I am picking slugs out of the flower-beds 
and giving them a dose of boiling water, 
or lugging about a watering-pot. I do it 
energetically, but my heart is not in it, 
though the garden is grateful all the same, 
and is as nice a symbol of the French 
people as I can imagine. 

We have the dragoons still with us. 
They don't interest me hugely — not as 
the English did when they retreated here 
last September, nor as the French infantry 
did on their way to the battlefield. These 
men have never been in action yet. Still 
they lend a picturesqueness to the country- 
side, though to me it is, as so much of 

[ 101 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

the war has been, too much like the decor 
of a drama. Every morning they ride by 
the gate, two abreast, to exercise their 
lovely horses, and just before noon they 
come back. All the afternoon they are 
passing in groups, smoking, chatting, and 
laughing, and, except for their uniforms, 
they do not suggest war, of which they 
actually know as little as I do. 

After dinner, in the twilight, for the 
days are getting long, and the moon is 
full, I sit on the lawn and listen to them 
singing in the street at Voisins, and they 
sing wonderfully well, and they sing good 
music. The other evening they sang 
choruses from " Louise " and " Faust," 
and a wonderful baritone sang " Vision 
Fugitive." The air was so still and clear 
that I hardly missed a note. 

A week ago tonight we were aroused 
late in the evening, it must have been 
nearly midnight, by an alerte announcing 
the passing of a Zeppelin. I got up and 
went out-of-doors, but neither heard nor 
saw anything, except a bicycle going over 
the hill, and a voice calling " Lights out." 
Evidently it did not get to Paris, as the 
papers have been absolutely dumb. 

One thing I have done this week. 
When the war began I bought, as did 
nearly everyone else, a big map of Ger- 
[ 102 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

many and the battle-fronts surrounding it, 
and little envelopes of tiny British, Bel- 
gian, French, Montenegrin, Servian, Rus- 
sian, German, and Austrian flags, mounted 
on pins. Every day, until the end of last 
week, I used to put the flags in place as 
well as I could after studying the day's 
communique. 

I began to get discouraged in the hard 
days of last month, when day after day 
I was obliged to retreat the Allied flags 
on the frontier, and when the Russian of- 
fensive fell down, I simply tore the map 
off the wall, and burned it, flags and all. 

Of course I said to myself, in the spirit 
I have caught from the army, " All these 
things are but incidents, and will have no 
effect on the final result. A nation is not 
defeated while its army is still standing 
up in its boots, so it is folly to bother over 
details." 

Do you ever wonder what the poets of 
the future will do with this war? Is it 
too stupendous for them, or, when they 
get it in perspective, can they find the in- 
spiration for words where now we have 
only tightened throats and a great pride 
that, in an age set down as commercial, 
such deeds of heroism could be? 

Who will sing the dirge of General 
Hamilton in the little cemetery of Lacou- 

[ 103 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

ture last October, when the farewell salute 
over his grave was turned to repel a Ger- 
man attack, while the voice of the priest 
kept on, calm and clear, to the end of the 
service? Who will sing the destruction 
of the Royal Scots, two weeks later, in 
the battle of Ypres? Who will sing the 
arrival of General Moussy, and of the 
French corps on the last day of that first 
battle of Ypres, when a motley gathering 
of cooks and laborers with staff officers 
and dismounted cavalry, in shining hel- 
mets, flung themselves pellmell into a bayo- 
net charge with no bayonets, to relieve the 
hard-pressed English division under Gen- 
eral Bulfin? And did it. Who will sing 
the great chant in honor of the 100,000 
who held Ypres against half a million, and 
locked the door to the Channel? Who 
will sing the bulldog fighting qualities of 
Rawlinson's 7th division, which held the 
line in those October days until reinforce- 
ments came, and which, at the end of the 
fight, mustered 44 officers out of 400, and 
only 2336 men out of 23,000? Who will 
sing the stirring scene of the French Chas- 
seurs, advancing with bugles and shouting 
the " Marseillaise," to storm and take the 
col de Bonhomme in a style of warfare 
as old as French history? And these are 
but single exploits in a war now settled 
[ 104 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

down to sullen, dull trench work, a war 
only in the early months of what looks 
like years of duration. 

Does n't it all make your blood flow 
fast? You see it tempts me to make an 
oration. You must overlook my elo- 
quence ! One does — over here, in the 
midst of it — feel such a reverence for 
human nature today. The spirit of hero- 
ism and self-sacrifice lives still amongst us. 
A world of machinery has not yet made 
a race incapable of greatness. I have a 
feeling that from the soil to which so many 
thousands of men have voluntarily re- 
turned to save their country's honor must 
spring up a France greater than ever. It 
is the old story of Atlas. Besides, " What 
more can a man do " — you know the rest. 
It is one of the things that make me sorry 
to feel that our own country is evidently 
going to avoid a movement which might 
have been at once healthy and uplifting. 
I know that you don't like me to say that, 
— but I '11 let it go. 



[ 105 ] 



XII 

June I, 1915 

Well, I have really had a very excit- 
ing time since I last wrote you. I have 
even had a caller. Also my neighbor at 
Voulangis, on the top of the hill, on the 
other side of the Morin, has returned from 
the States, to which she fled just before 
the Battle of the Marne. I even went to 
Paris to meet her. To tell you the actual 
truth, for a few days, I behaved exactly 
as if there were no war. I had to pinch 
myself now and then to remind myself that 
whatever else might be real or unreal, the 
war was very actual. 

I must own that Paris seems to get far- 
ther and farther from it every day. From 
daybreak to sunset I found it hard to real- 
ize that it was the capital of an invaded 
country fighting for its very existence, and 
the invader no farther from the Boule- 
vards than Noyon, Soissons, and Rheims 
— on a battle-front that has not changed 
more than an inch or two — and often an 
inch or two in the wrong direction — since 
last October. 

I could not help thinking, as I rode up 

[ 106 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

the Champs-Elysees in the sun — it was 
Sunday — how humiliated the Kaiser, that 
crowned head of Terrorizers, would be if 
he could have seen Paris that day. 

Children were playing under the trees 
of the broad mall; automobiles were rush- 
ing up and down the avenue ; crowds were 
sitting all along the way, watching the 
passers and chatting; all the big hotels, 
turned into ambulances, had their windows 
open to the glorious sunny warmth, and 
the balconies were crowded with invalid 
soldiers and white-garbed nurses ; not even 
arms in slings or heads in bandages looked 
sad, for everyone seemed to be laughing; 
nor did the crippled soldiers, walking 
slowly along, add a tragic note to the 
wonderful scene. 

It was strange — it was more than 
strange. It seemed to me almost unbe- 
lievable. 

I could not help asking myself if it could 
last. 

Every automobile which passed had at 
least one soldier in it. Almost every well- 
dressed woman had a soldier beside her. 
Those who did not, looked sympatheti- 
cally at every soldier who passed, and now 
and then stopped to chat with the groups 
— soldiers on crutches, soldiers with canes, 
soldiers with an arm in a sling, or an 

[ 107 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

empty sleeve, leading the blind, and sol- 
diers with nothing of their faces visible 
but the eyes. 

By every law I knew the scene should 
have been sad. But some law of love and 
sunshine had decreed that it should not be, 
and it was not. 

It was not the Paris you saw, even last 
summer, but it was Paris with a soul, and 
I know no better prayer to put up than 
the cry that the wave of love which seemed 
to throb everywhere about the soldier boys, 
and which they seemed to feel and respond 
to, might not — with time — die down. I 
knew it was too much to ask of human 
nature. I was glad I had seen it. 

In this atmosphere of love Paris looked 
more beautiful to me than ever. The foun- 
tains were playing in the Place de la Con- 
corde, in the Tuileries gardens, at the 
Rond Point, and the gardens, the Avenue 
and the ambulances were bright with 
flowers. I just felt, as I always do when 
the sun shines on that wonderful vista 
from the Arc de Triomphe to the Louvre, 
that nowhere in the world was there an- 
other such picture, unless it be the vista 
from the Louvre to the Arc de Triomphe. 
When I drove back up the hill at sunset, 
with a light mist veiling the sun through 
the arch, I felt so grateful to the fate 
[ 108 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

which had decreed that never again should 
the German army look on that scene, and 
that a nation which had a capital that could 
smile in the face of fate as Paris smiled 
that day, must not, cannot, be conquered. 

Of course after dark it is all different. 
It is then that one realizes that Paris is 
changed. The streets are no longer bril- 
liantly lighted. There are no social func- 
tions. The city seems almost deserted. 
One misses the brightness and the activity. 
I really found it hard to find my way about 
and recognize familiar street corners in 
the dark. A few days of it were enough 
for me, and I was glad enough to come 
back to my quiet hilltop. At my age habits 
are strong. 

Also let me tell you things are slowly 
changing here. Little by little I can feel 
conditions closing up about me, and I 
can see " coming events " casting " their 
shadows before." 

Let me give you a little example. 

A week ago today my New York doctor 
came down to spend a few days with me. 
It was a great event for a lady who had 
not had a visitor for months. He wanted 
to go out to the battlefield, so I arranged 
to meet his train at Esbly, go on with him 
to Meaux, and drive back by road. 

I started for Esbly in my usual sans 

[ 109 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

gene manner, and was disgusted with my- 
self on arriving to discover that I had left 
all my papers at home. However, as I 
had never had to show them, I imagined 
it would make no difference. 

I presented myself at the ticket-office to 
buy a ticket for Meaux, and you can im- 
agine my chagrin when I was asked for 
my papers. I explained to the station- 
master, who knows me, that I had left 
them at home. He was very much dis- 
tressed, — said he would take the respon- 
sibility of selling me a ticket if I wanted 
to risk it, — but the new orders were strict, 
and he was certain I would not be allowed 
to leave the station at Meaux. 

Naturally, I did not want to take such 
a risk, or to appear, in any way, not to 
be en regie. So I took the doctor off the 
train, and drove back here for my papers, 
and then we went on to Meaux by road. 

It was lucky I did, for I found every- 
thing changed at Meaux. In the first 
place, we could not have an automobile, 
as General Joffre had issued an order for- 
bidding the circulation inside of the mili- 
tary zone of all automobiles except those 
connected with the army. We could have 
a little victoria and a horse, but before 
taking that, we had to go to the Prefet de 
Police and exhibit our papers and get a 
[ no ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

special sauf -conduit, — and we had to be 
diplomatic to get that. 

Once started, instead of sliding out of 
the town past a guard who merely went 
through the formality of looking at the 
driver's papers, we found, on arriving at 
the entrance into the route de Senlis, that 
the road was closed with a barricade, and 
only one carriage could pass at a time. In 
the opening stood a soldier barring the 
way with his gun, and an officer came to 
the carriage and examined all our papers 
before the sentinel shouldered his musket 
and let us pass. We were stopped at all 
the cross-roads, and at that between Barcy 
and Chambry, — where the pedestal of 
the monument to mark the limit of the 
battle in the direction of Paris is already 
in place, — we found a group of a dozen 
officers — not noncommissioned officers, 
if you please, but captains and majors. 
There our papers, including American 
passports, were not only examined, but 
signatures and seals verified. 

This did not trouble me a bit. Indeed 
I felt it well, and high time, and that it 
should have been done ten months ago. 

It was a perfect day, and the battlefield 
was simply beautiful, with the grain well 
up, and people moving across it in all di- 
rections. These were mostly people walk- 

[ in ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

ing out from Meaux, and soldiers from 
the big hospital there making a pilgrimage 
to the graves of their comrades. What 
made the scene particularly touching was 
the number of children, and the nurses 
pushing babies in their carriages. It 
seemed to me such a pretty idea to think 
of little children roaming about this battle- 
field as if it were a garden. I could not 
help wishing the nation was rich enough 
to make this place a public park. 

In spite of only having a horse we made 
the trip easily, and got back here by 
dinner-time. 

Two days later we had an exciting five 
minutes. 

It was breakfast time. The doctor and 
I were taking our coffee out-of-doors, on 
the north side of the house, in the shade 
of the ivy-clad wall of the old grange. 
There the solitude is perfect. No one 
could see us there. We could only see the 
roofs of the few houses at Joncheroy, and 
beyond them the wide amphitheatre-like 
panorama, with the square towers of the 
cathedral of Meaux at the east and 
Esbly at the west, and Mareuil-les-Meaux 
nestled on the river in the foreground. 

You see I am looking at my panorama 
again. One can get used to anything, I 
find. 

[ 112 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

It was about nine o'clock. 

Suddenly there was a terrible explosion, 
which brought both of us to our feet, for 
it shook the very ground beneath us. We 
looked in the direction from which it 
seemed to come — Meaux — and we saw 
a column of smoke rising in the vicinity 
of Mareuil — only two miles away. Be- 
fore we had time to say a word we saw 
a second puff, and then came a second ex- 
plosion, then a third and a fourth. I was 
just rooted to my spot, until Amelie dashed 
out of the kitchen, and then we all ran to 
the hedge, — it was only a hundred feet 
or so nearer the smoke, and we could 
see women running in the fields, — that 
was all. 

But Amelie could not remain long in 
ignorance like that. There was a staff 
officer cantoned at Voisins and he had 
telephonic communication with Meaux, so 
down the hill she went in search of news, 
and fifteen minutes later we knew that a 
number of Taubes had tried to reach Paris 
in the night, that there had been a battle 
in the air at Crepy-les-Valois, and one of 
these machines had dropped four bombs, 
evidently meant for Meaux, near Mareuil, 
where they had fallen in the fields and 
harmed no one. 

We never got any explanation of how 

1 113 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

it happened that a Taube should be flying 
over us at that hour, in broad daylight, or 
what became of it afterward. Probably 
someone knows. If someone does, he is 
evidently not telling us. 

Amelie's remark, as she returned to her 
kitchen, was: "Well, it was nearer than 
the battle. Perhaps next time — " She 
shrugged her shoulders, and we all 
laughed, and life went on as usual. Well, 
I Ve heard the whir-r of a German bomb, 
even if I did not see the machine that 
threw it. 

The doctor did not get over laughing 
until he went back to Paris. I am afraid 
he never will get over guying me about 
the shows I get up to amuse my visitors. 
I expect that I must keep a controlling in- 
fluence over him, or, before he is done 
joking, the invisible Taube will turn into 
a Zeppelin, or perhaps a fleet of airships. 



[ "4 ] 



XIII 

June 20, 1 91 5 

Having an American neighbor near by 
again has changed life more than you 
would imagine. 

She is only five miles away. She can 
come over on horseback in half an hour, 
and she often arrives for coffee, which is 
really jolly. Now and then she drives 
over unexpectedly, and carries me back 
with her for the night. I never feel like 
staying longer, but it changes the com- 
plexion of life. Besides, we can talk about 
our native land — in English — and that 
is a change. 

Now don't imagine that I have been 
lonely. I have not. I was quite contented 
before she returned, but I have never con- 
cealed from you that the war is trying. I 
needed, now and then, to exchange words 
with one of my own race, and to say things 
about my own country which I 'd be burned 
at the stake before I 'd say before a French 
person. 

Beside, the drive from here to Voulan- 
gis is beautiful. We have three or four 
ways to go, and each one is prettier than 

[ 115 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

the other. Sometimes we go through 
Quincy, by the Chateau de Moulignon, to 
Pont aux Dames, and through the old 
moated town of Crecy-en-Brie. Sometimes 
we go down the valley of the Mesnil, a 
hilly path along the edge of a tiny river, 
down which we dash at a breakneck speed, 
only possible to an expert driver. Indeed 
Pere never believes we do it. He could 
not. Since he could not, to him it is im- 
possible to anyone. 

Just now the most interesting way is 
through Couilly and St. Germain, by the 
Bois de Misere, to Villiers-sur-Morin, 
whence we climb the hill to Voulangis, 
with the valley dropping away on one side. 
It is one of the loveliest drives I know, 
along the Morin, by the mills, through 
the almost virgin forest. 

The artillery — territorials — is can- 
toned all along here, at Villiers, at Crecy, 
and at Voulangis. The road is lined with 
grey cannon and ammunition wagons. 
Every little way there is a sentinel in his 
box, and horses are everywhere. 

Some of the sentinel boxes are, as we 
used to say in the States, " too cute for 
words. " The prettiest one in the Depart- 
ment is right here, at the corner of the 
route Madame, which crosses my hill, and 
whence the road leads from the Demi- 

[ "6 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Lane right down to the canal. It is woven 
of straw, has a nice floor, a Gothic roof, 
a Gothic door, and the tiniest Gothic win- 
dow, and a little flag floating from its 
peak. 

It is a little bijou, and I did hope that 
I could beg, borrow, steal, or buy it from 
the dragoon who made it. But I can't. 
The lieutenant is attached to it, and is 
going to take it with him, alas ! 

I happened to be at Voulangis when the 
territorials left — quite unexpectedly, as 
usual. They never get much notice of a 
releve. 

We were sitting in the garden at 
tea when the assemblage general was 
sounded, and the order read to march at 
four next morning. 

You never saw such a bustle, — such a 
cleaning of boots, such a packing of sacks, 
such a getting together of the officers' 
canteens — orderlies getting about quickly, 
and trying to give demonstrations of " ef- 
ficiency " (how I detest the very word!), 
and such a rounding up of last things for 
the commissary department, including a 
mobilization of Brie cheese (this is its 
home), and such a pulling into position of 
cannon — all the inevitable activity of a 
regiment preparing to take the road, after 
a two months' canlonnement, in absolute 

[ 117 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

ignorance of the direction they were to 
take, or their destination. 

The last thing I saw that night was the 
light of their lanterns, and the last thing 
I heard was the march of their hob-nailed 
boots. The first thing I heard in the morn- 
ing, just as day broke, was the neighing of 
the horses, and the subdued voices of the 
men as the teams were harnessed. 

We had all agreed to get up to see 
them start. It seemed the least we could 
do. So, well wrapped up in our big coats, 
against the chill of four o'clock, we went 
to the little square in front of the church, 
from which they were to start, and where 
the long line of grey cannon, grey ammu- 
nition, camions, grey commissary wagons 
were ready, and the men, sac au dos, al- 
ready climbing into place — one mounted 
on each team of four horses, three on each 
gun-carriage, facing the horses, with three 
behind, with their backs to the team. The 
horses of the officers were waiting in front 
of the little inn opposite, from which the 
officers emerged one by one, mounted and 
rode to a place in front of the church. We 
were a little group of about twenty women 
and children standing on one side of the 
square, and a dead silence hung over the 
scene. The men, even, spoke in whispers. 

The commander, in front of his staff, 

[ "8 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

ran his eyes slowly over the line, until a 
sous-officier approached, saluted, and an- 
nounced, " All ready," when the com- 
mander rode to the head of the line, raised 
one hand above his head, and with it made 
a sharp forward gesture — the unspoken 
order " en avant " — and backed his 
horse, and the long grey line began to 
move slowly towards the Foret de Crecy, 
the officers falling into place as it passed. 

Some of the men leaned down to shake 
hands as they went by, some of the men 
saluted, not a word was spoken, and the 
silence was only broken by the tramp of 
the horses, the straining of the harnesses, 
and rumble of the wheels. 

It was all so different — as everything 
in this war has been — from anything I 
had ever dreamed when I imagined war. 
Yet I suppose that the future dramatist 
who uses this period as a background can 
get his effects just the same, without 
greatly falsifying the truth. You know I 
am like Uncle Sarcey — a really model 
theatre audience. No effect, halfway 
good, passes me by. So, as I turned back 
at the garden gate to watch the long grey 
line winding slowly into the forest, I found 
that I had the same chill down my back 
and the same tightness over my eyes and 
in my throat, which, in the real theatre- 

[ 119 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

goers, announce that an effect has " gone 
home.' , 

The only other thing I have done this 
month which could interest you was to 
have a little tea-party on the lawn for the 
convalescent boys of our ambulance, who 
were " personally conducted " by one of 
their nurses. 

Of course they were all sorts and all 
classes. When I got them grouped round 
the table, in the shade of the big clump of 
lilac bushes, I was impressed, as I always 
am when I see a number of common sol- 
diers together, with the fact that no other 
race has such intelligent, such really well- 
modelled faces, as the French. It is rare 
to see a fat face among them. There were 
farmers, blacksmiths, casters, workmen of 
all sorts, and there was one young law 
student, and the mixed group seemed to 
have a real sentiment of fraternity. 

Of course, the law student was more 
accustomed to society than the others, and 
became, naturally, a sort of leader. He 
knew just what to do, and just how to do 
it, — how to get into the salon when he 
arrived, and how to greet his hostess. But 
the rest knew how to follow suit, and did 
it, and, though some of them were a little 
shy at first, not one was confused, and in 
a few minutes they were all quite at their 
[ 120 ] 



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On the Edge of the War Zone 

ease. By the time the brief formality of 
being received was over, and they were 
all gathered round the tea-table, the at- 
mosphere had become comfortable and 
friendly, and, though they let the law stu- 
dent lead the conversation, they were all 
alert and interested, and when one of them 
did speak, it was to the point. 

When tea was over and we walked out 
on the lawn on the north side of the house 
to look over the field of the battle in which 
most of them had taken part, they were all 
ready to talk — they were on ground 
they knew. One of them asked me if I 
could see any of the movements of the 
armies, and I told him that I could not, 
that I could only see the smoke, and hear 
the artillery fire, and now and then, when 
the wind was right, the sharp repeating 
fire of rifles as well as mitrailleuses, and 
that I ended by distinguishing the soixante- 
quinze from other artillery guns. 

" Look down there, in the wide plain 
below Montyon," said the law student. 
I looked, and he added, " As nearly as I 
can judge the ground from here, if you had 
been looking there at eleven o'clock in the 
morning, you would have seen a big move- 
ment of troops." 

Of course I explained to him that I had 
not expected any movement in that direc- 

[ 121 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

tion, and had only watched the approach 
from Meaux. 

Beyond that one incident, these wounded 
soldiers said no word about battles. Most 
of the conversation was political. 

When the nurse looked at her watch 
and said it was time to return to the hos- 
pital, as they must not be late for dinner, 
they all rose. The law student came, 
cap in hand, made me a low bow, and 
thanked me for a pleasant afternoon, and 
every man imitated his manner — with 
varying degrees of success — and made 
his little speech and bow, and then they 
marched up the road, turning back, as the 
English soldiers had done — how long 
ago it seems — to wave their caps as they 
went round the corner. 

I did wish that you could have been 
there. You always used to love the 
French. You would have loved them 
more that afternoon. 

It is wonderful how these people keep 
up their courage. To me it seems like the 
uplift of a Holy Cause. They did expect 
a big summer offensive. But it does not 
come, and we hear it rumored that, while 
we have men enough, the Germans have 
worked so hard, while the English were 
recruiting, that they are almost impreg- 
nably entrenched, and that while their 
[ 122 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

ammunition surpasses anything we can 
have for months yet, it would be military 
suicide to throw our infantry against their 
superior guns. In the meantime, while 
the Allies are working like mad to increase 
their artillery equipments, the Germans 
are working just as hard, and Time serves 
one party as well as the other. I suppose 
it will only be after the war that we shall 
really know to what our disappointment 
was due, and, as usual, the same cry con- 
soles us all: "None of these things will 
change the final result! " and most people 
keep silent under the growing conviction 
that this " may go on for years." 

One thing I really must tell you — not 
a person mentioned the Lusitania at the 
tea-party, which was, I suppose, a hand- 
some effort at reticence, since the lady of 
the house was an American, and the Stars 
and Stripes, in little, were fluttering over 
the chimney. 

I take note of one remark in your last 
letter, in reply to mine of May 18. You 
twit me with " rounding off my periods." 
I apologize. You must remember that I 
earned my bread and salt doing that for 
years, and habit is strong. I no longer 
do it with my tongue in my cheek. My 
word for that. 

[ 123 ] 



XIV 

August i, 1915 

Well, dear girl, not a bit of news to 
tell you. I have really done nothing this 
last month but look at my flowers, super- 
intend the gathering of my plums, put up 
a few pots of confiture, mow the lawn, and 
listen to the guns, now and then, read the 
communiques, and sigh over the disasters 
in the east and the deadlock at Gallipoli. 

At the end of the first year of the war 
the scene has stretched out so tremendously 
that my poor tired brain can hardly take it 
in. I suppose it is all clear to the general 
staff, but I don't know. To me it all looks 
like a great labyrinth, — and the Germans 
are at the gates of Warsaw. Of course 
this does not " alter the final result " — 
when that comes — but it means more 
destruction, more land to win back, and, 
I imagine, such desolation in Poland as 
makes even the Belgian disaster look, by 
comparison, small. 

Oddly enough, while we know that this 

will brace up the Germans, fighting all 

about their borders on invaded territory, 

it does not effect the faith of the people 

[ 124 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

here, who have even the courage to turn 
aside from their own grief, with tears in 
their eyes, to pity Poland. What a price 
Belgium pays for her courage to be honor- 
able, and at what a price Poland must ac- 
cept her independence ! Everyone is phil- 
osophical here, but one does not have to 
be heartless to be that. 

I find it ironical that my flowers bloom, 
that gay humming-birds hover over my 
Vilas de Perse, that I have enough to eat, 
that sleep comes to me, and that the coun- 
try is so beautiful. 

Our dragoons have ridden away — on 
to the front, I am told, and silence has 
settled down on us. 

I am well — there ends the history of 
a month, and I am not the only one in 
France leading a life like that, — and still 
the cannon are pounding on in the distance. 



[ 125 ] 



XV 

August 6, 1915 
Well, the sans gene days seem to be 
passed. 

Up to now, as I have told you, the sanf- 
conduit matter, except on the last day I 
was at Meaux, was the thinnest sort of 
formality. I had to have one to leave the 
commune, but the blank forms were lying 
around everywhere. I had only to stop 
at the hotel at Couilly, step into the cafe, 
pick up a form and ask the proprietor to 
fill it out, and that was all that was neces- 
sary. I might have passed it on to anyone, 
for, although my name was written on it, 
no one ever took the trouble to fill out the 
description. The ticket-seller at the sta- 
tion merely glanced at the paper in my 
hand when I bought a ticket, and the gen- 
darmes at the ticket window in Paris, when 
there were any, — often there were none 
— - did no more. Of course, the possession 
of a sauf -conduit presupposes all one's 
papers en regie, but I never saw anyone 
examining to make sure of that. 

All this is ended. We are evidently 
under a new regime. 

1 126 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I had my first intimation yesterday, 
when I had a domiciliary visit from the 
gendarmes at Esbly. It was a very formal, 
thorough affair, the two officers treating 
me, at the beginning of the interview, as 
if I were a very guilty person. 

I was upstairs when I saw them arrive 
on their wheels. I put down my sewing, 
and went down to be ready to open the 
door when they knocked. They did n't 
knock. I waited a bit, then opened the 
door. There was no one on the terrace, 
but I heard their voices from the other side 
of the house. I went in search of them. 
They were examining the back of the house 
as if they had never seen one like it be- 
fore. When they saw me, one of them 
said sharply, without the slightest salute: 
"There is no bell?" 

I acknowledged the self-evident fact. 

" How does one get in, since you keep 
your door locked? " he added. 

" Well," I replied, with a smile, "asa 
rule, one knocks." 

To that his only reply was: "Your 
name? " 

I gave it to him. 

He looked on his paper, repeated it — 
mispronouncing it, of course, and evidently 
sure that I did not know how to pronounce 
it myself. 

[ 127 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

" Foreigner," he stated. 

I could not deny the charge. I merely 
volunteered " Americaine" 

Then the inquiry continued like this. 
" Live here?" 

" Evidently." 

" How long have you lived here? " 

" Since June, 19 14." 

That seemed to strike him as a very sus- 
picious date, and he stared at me hard for 
a moment before he went on: "What 
for?" 

" Principally because I leased the 
house." 

" Why do you remain here in war- 
time?" 

" Because I have nowhere else to go," 
and I tried not to smile. 

" Why don't you go home? " 

" This is my home." 

" Have n't you any home in America? " 

I resisted telling him that it was none 
of his business, and did my best to look 
pathetic — it was that, or laugh — as I 
answered: "Alas! I have not." 

This seemed to strike both of them as 
unbelievable, and they only stared at me 
as if trying to put me out of countenance. 

In the meantime, some of the people of 
Huiry, interested always in gendarmes, 
were standing at the top of the hill watch- 

[ 128 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

ing the scene, so I said: "Suppose you 
come inside and I will answer your ques- 
tions there," and I opened the door of the 
salon, and went in. 

They hesitated a moment, but decided 
to follow me. They stood, very stiffly, 
just inside the door, looking about with 
curiosity. I sat down at my desk, and 
made a motion to them to be seated. I 
did not know whether or not it was cor- 
rect to ask gendarmes to sit down, but I 
ventured it. Evidently it was not correct, 
for they paid no attention to my gesture. 

When they were done looking about, 
they asked me for my papers. 

I produced my American passport. 
They looked at the huge steel-engraved 
document with great seriousness. I am 
sure they had never seen one before. It 
impressed them — as well it might, in 
comparison with the civil papers of the 
French government. 

They satisfied themselves that the pic- 
ture affixed was really I — that the name 
agreed with that on their books. Of 
course, they could not read a word of it, 
but they looked wise. Then they asked 
me for my French papers. I produced 
my permis de sejour — permitting me to 
stay in France provided I did not change 
my residence, and to which was affixed the 

[ 129 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

same photograph as that on my passport; 
my declaration of my civil situation, duly 
stamped; and my " immatriculation," a 
leaf from the register on which all for- 
eigners are written down, just as we would 
be if admitted to a hospital or an insane 
asylum. 

The two men put their heads together 
over these documents — examined the sig- 
natures and the seals with great gravity 
— - with evident regret to find that I was 
quite en regie. 

Finally they permitted me to put the 
documents all back in the case in which I 
carry them. 

I thought the scene was over. Not at 
all. They waited until I shut the case, and 
replaced it in my bag — and then: 

" You live alone?" one asked. 

I owned that I did. 

" But why?" 

" Well," I replied, " because I have no 
family here." 

" You have no domestic? " 

I explained that I had a femme de 
menage. 

"Where is she?" 

I said that at that moment she was prob- 
ably at Couilly, but that ordinarily when 
she was not here, she was at her own 
home. 

[ 130 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

"Where is that?" was the next ques- 
tion. 

So I took them out on to the terrace 
again, and showed them Amelie's house. 

They stared solemnly at it, as if they 
had never seen it before, and then one of 
them turned on me quickly, as if to startle 
me. " Vons etes une femme de lettres? " 

" It is so written down in my papers," 
I replied. 

" Joiirnaliste? " 

I denied my old calling without the 
quiver of an eyelash. I had n't a scruple. 
Besides, my old profession many a time 
failed me, and it might have been danger- 
ous to have been known as even an ex- 
journalist today within the zone of mili- 
tary operations. 

Upon that followed a series of the most 
intimate questions anyone ever dared put 
to me, — my income, my resources, my 
expectations, my plans, etc. — and all sorts 
of questions I too rarely put to myself 
even, and never answer to myself. Practi- 
cally the only question they did not ask 
was if I ever intended to marry. I was 
tempted to volunteer that information, 
but, as neither man had the smallest sense 
of humor, I decided it was wiser to let well 
enough alone. 

It was only when they were stumped 

[ 131 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

for another single question that they de- 
cided to go. They saluted me politely this 
time, a tribute I imagine to my having kept 
my temper under great provocation to 
lose it, went out of the gate, stood whisper- 
ing together a few minutes, and gazing 
back at the house, as if afraid they would 
forget it, looked up at the plaque on the 
gate-post, made a note, mounted their 
wheels, and sprinted down the hill, still in 
earnest conversation. 

I wondered what they were saying to 
one another. Whatever it was, I got an 
order early the next morning to present 
myself at the gendarmerie at Esbly before 
eleven o'clock. 

Pere was angry. He seemed to feel, 
that, for some reason, I was under suspi- 
cion, and that it was a man's business to 
defend me. So, when Ninette brought my 
perambulator to the gate, there was Pere, 
in his veston and casquette, determined to 
go with me and see me through. 

At Esbly I found a different sort of per- 
son — a gentleman — he told me he was 
not a gendarme by metier, but a volun- 
teer — and, although he put me through 
practically the same paces, it was different. 
He was sympathetic, not averse to a joke, 
and, when it was over, he went out to help 
me into my baby cart, thanked me for 

[ 132 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

troubling myself, assured me that I was 
absolutely en regie, and even went so very 
far as to say that he was pleased to have 
met me. So I suppose, until the com- 
mander at Esbly is changed, I shall be left 
in peace. 

This will give you a little idea of what 
it is like here. I suppose I needed to be 
shaken up a bit to make me realize that 
I was near the war. It is easy to forget it 
sometimes. 

Amelie came this morning with the tale 
that it was rumored that all foreigners 
were to be " expelled from the zone des 
armees." It might be. Still, I am not 
worrying. " Sufficient to the day," you 
know. 



[ 133 ] 



XVI 

September 8, 191 5 

You have the date quite right. 

It is a year ago today — this very 8th 
of September — since I saw the French 
soldiers march away across the hill, over 
what we call the " Champs Madame " — 
no one knows why — on their way to the 
battle behind Meaux. 

By chance — you could not have planned 
it, since the time it takes a letter to reach 
me depends on how interesting the censor 
finds it — your celebration of that event 
reached me on its anniversary. 

You are absolutely wrong, however, to 
pull such a long face over my situation. 
You write as if I had passed through a 
year of misery. I have not. I am sure 
you never got that impression from my 
letters, and I assure you that I am writing 
exactly as I feel — I have no fagade up 
for you. 

I own it has been a year of tension. It 
has been three hundred and sixty-five days 
and a fourth, not one of which has been 
free from anxiety of some sort or other. 
Sometimes I have been cold. Sometimes 

C 134 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I have been nervous. But all the same, 
it has been fifty-two weeks of growing re- 
spect for the people among whom I live, 
and of ever-mounting love of life, and 
never-failing conviction that the sum of 
it is beauty. I have had to fight for the 
faith in that, but I have kept it. Always 
" In the midst of life we are in Death," 
but not always is death so fine and beauti- 
ful a thing as in these days. No one would 
choose that such things as have come to 
pass in the last year should be, but since 
they are, don't be so foolish as to pity me, 
who have the chance to look on, near 
enough to feel and to understand, even 
though I am far enough off to be absolutely 
safe, — alas ! eternally a mere spectator. 
And speaking of having been cold re- 
minds me that it is beginning to get cold 
again. We have had heavy hailstorms 
already, hail as big and hard as dried 
peas, and I have not as yet been able to 
get fuel. So I am looking forward to an- 
other trying winter. In the spring my 
coal-dealer assured me that last winter's 
situation would not be repeated, and I told 
him that I would take all the coal he could 
get me. Having said that, I took no fur- 
ther thought of the matter. Up to date 
he has not been able to get any. The rail- 
road is too busy carrying war material. 

[ 135 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I was pained by the tone of your last 
letter. Evidently mine of the Fourth of 
July did not please you. Evidently you 
don't like my politics or my philosophy, 
or my " deadly parallels," or any of my 
thoughts about the present and future of 
my native land. Destroy the letter. For- 
get it, and we '11 talk of other things, and, 
to take a big jump — 

Did you ever keep cats? 

There is a subject in which you can find 
no offence, and if it does not appeal to you 
it is your own fault. 

If you never have kept cats, you have 
missed lots of fun, you are not half edu- 
cated, you have not been disciplined at 
all. A cat is a wonderful animal, but he is 
not a bit like what, on first making his ac- 
quaintance, you think he is going to be, 
and he never becomes it. 

Now I have been living a year this Sep- 
tember with one cat, and part of the time, 
with two. I am wiser than I used to be. 
By fits and starts I am more modest. 

I used to think that a cat was a tame 
animal, who lapped milk, slept, rolled up 
ornamentally on a rug, now and then 
chased his tail, and now and then played 
gracefully with a ball, came and sat on 
your knee when you invited him, and 
caught mice, if mice came where he was. 

[ 136 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

All the cats I had seen in the homes of 
my friends surely did those things. I 
thought them " so pretty," " so graceful," 
" so soft," and I always said they " gave 
a cosy look to a room." 

But I had never been intimate with a 
cat. 

When the English soldiers were here a 
year ago, Amelie came one morning bring- 
ing a kitten in her apron. You remember 
I told you of this. He was probably three 
months old — so Amelie says, and she 
knows all about cats. She said off-hand: 
" O est un chat du mois de juin." She 
seems to know what month well-behaved 
cats ought to be born. So far as I know, 
they might be born in any old month. He 
was like a little tiger, with a white face 
and shirt-front, white paws and lovely 
green eyes. 

He had to have a name, so, as he had a 
lot of brown, the color of the English uni- 
form, and came to me while the soldiers 
were here, I named him Khaki. He ac- 
cepted it, and answered to his name at 
once. He got well rapidly. His fur 
began to grow, and so did he. 

At first he lived up to my idea of what 
a kitten should be. He was always ready 
to play, but he had much more originality 
than I knew cats to have. He was so 

[ 137 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

amusing that I gave lots of time to him. 
I had corks, tied to strings, hanging to all 
the door knobs and posts in the house, 
and, for hours at a time, he amused him- 
self playing games like basket-ball and 
football with these corks. I lost hours of 
my life watching him, and calling Amelie 
to " come quick " and see him. His in- 
genuity was remarkable. He would take 
the cork in his front paws, turn over on 
his back, and try to rip it open with his 
hind paws. I suppose that was the way 
his tiger ancestors ripped open their prey. 
He would carry the cork, attached to the 
post at the foot of the staircase, as far up 
the stairs as the string would allow him, 
lay it down and touch it gently to make it 
roll down the stairs so that he could spring 
after it and catch it before it reached the 
bottom. All this was most satisfactory. 
That was what I expected a cat to do. 

He lapped his milk all right. I did not 
know what else to give him. I asked 
Amelie what she gave hers. She said 
" soup made out of bread and drippings." 
That was a new idea. But Amelie's cats 
looked all right. So I made the same 
kind of soup for Khaki. Not he! He 
turned his back on it. Then Amelie sug- 
gested bread in his milk. I tried that. He 
lapped the milk, but left the bread. I was 

[ 138 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

rather in despair. He looked too thin. 
Amelie suggested that he was a thin kind 
of a cat. I did not want a thin kind of a 
cat. I wanted a roly-poly cat. 

One day I was eating a dry biscuit at tea 
time. He carne and stood beside me, and 
I offered him a piece. He accepted it. So, 
after that, I gave him biscuit and milk. 
He used to sit beside his saucer, lap up 
his milk, and then pick up the pieces of 
biscuit with his paw and eat them. This 
got to be his first show trick. Everyone 
came to see Khaki eat " with his fingers." 

All Amelie's efforts to induce him to 
adopt the diet of all the other cats in 
Huiry failed. Finally I said: " What does 
he want, Amelie ? What do cats, who will 
not eat soup, eat? " 

Reluctantly I got it — " Liver." 

Well, I should think he did. He eats 
it twice a day. 

Up to that time he had never talked 
even cat language. He had never meowed 
since the day he presented himself at 
Amelie's and asked for sanctuary. 

But we have had, from the beginning, 
a few collisions of will-power. The first 
few weeks that he was a guest in my house, 
I was terribly flattered because he never 
wanted to sleep anywhere but on my knees. 
He did not squirm round as Amelie said 

[ 139 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

kittens usually did. He never climbed on 
my shoulders and rubbed against my face. 
He simply jumped up in my lap, turned 
round once, lay down, and lay perfectly 
still. If I got up, I had to put him in my 
chair, soothe him a bit, as you would a 
baby, if I expected him to stay, but, even 
then, nine times out of ten, as soon as I 
was settled in another chair, he followed, 
and climbed into my lap. 

Now things that are flattering finally 
pall. I began to guess that it was his com- 
fort, not his love for me, that controlled 
him. Well — it is the old story. 

But the night question was the hardest. 
He had a basket. He had a cushion. I 
have the country habit of going to bed with 
the chickens. The cat came near changing 
all that. I used to let him go to sleep in 
my lap. I used to put him in his basket 
by the table with all the care that you 
would put a baby. Then I made a dash 
for upstairs and closed the doors. Ha! 
ha ! In two minutes he was scratching at 
the door. I let him scratch. " He must 
be disciplined," I said. There was a 
cushion at the door, and finally he would 
settle down and in the morning he was 
there when I woke. " He will learn," I 
said. H'm! 

One night, while I was in my dressing- 

[ HO ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

room, I neglected to latch the bedroom 
door. When I was ready to get into bed, 
lo ! there was Khaki on the foot of the 
bed, close against the footboard, fast 
asleep. Not only was he asleep, but he 
was lying on his back, with his two white 
paws folded over his eyes as if to keep the 
lamplight out of them. Well — I had not 
the heart to drive him away. He had 
won. He slept there. He never budged 
until I was dressed in the morning, when 
he got up, as if it were the usual thing, and 
followed, in his most dignified manner, 
down to breakfast. 

Well, that was struggle number one. 
Khaki had scored. 

But, no sooner had I got myself recon- 
ciled — I felt pretty shamefaced — when 
he changed his plans. The very moment 
I was ready for bed he wanted to go out. 
He never meowed. He just tapped at the 
door, and if that did not succeed, he 
scratched on the window, and he was so 
one-idea-ed that nothing turned him from 
his purpose until he was let out. 

For a time I used to sit up for him to 
come in. I was ashamed to let Amelie 
know. But, one night, after I had been 
out in the garden with a lantern hunting 
for him at midnight, I heard a gentle purr- 
ing sound, and, after looking in every di- 

[ hi ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

rection, I finally located him on the roof 
of the kitchen. Being a bit dull, I imag- 
ined that he could not get down. I stood 
up on a bench under the kitchen window, 
and called him. He came to the eaves, 
and I could just reach him, but, as I was 
about to take him by a leg and haul him 
down, he retreated just out of my reach, 
and said what I imagined to be a pathetic 
" meow." I talked to him. I tried to 
coax him to come within reach again, but 
he only went up the roof to the ridgepole 
and looked down the other side and said 
" meow." I was in despair, when it oc- 
curred to me to get the step-ladder. You 
may think me impossibly silly, but I never 
supposed that he could get down. 

I went for the key to the grange, pulled 
out the ladder, and hauled it along the ter- 
race, and was just putting it up, when the 
little devil leaped from the roof into the 
lilac bush, swayed there a minute, ran 
down, scampered across the garden, and 
dashed up a pear tree, and — well, I think 
he laughed at me. 

Anyway, I was mad. I went in and 
told him that he might stop out all night 
for all I cared. Still, I could not sleep for 
thinking of him — used to comfort — out 
in the night, and it was chilly. But he had 
to be disciplined. 

[ 142 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I had to laugh in the morning, for he 
was playing on the terrace when I opened 
the door, and he had a line of three first- 
class mice laid out for me. I said : " Why, 
good morning, Khaki, did mother make 
him stay out all night? Well, you know 
he was a naughty cat! " 

He gave me a look — I fancied it was 
quizzical — rolled over, and showed his 
pretty white belly, then jumped up, gave 
one look up at the bedroom window, scam- 
pered up the salon shutter, crouched on 
the top, and, with one leap, was through 
the bedroom window. When I rushed up- 
stairs — to see if he had hurt himself, I 
suppose, — he was sitting on the foot of 
the bed, and I think he was grinning. 

So much for disciplining a cat. 

However, I had learned something — 
and, evidently, he had also. I had learned 
that a cat can take care of himself, and 
has a right to live a cat's life, and he 
learned that I was dull. We treat each 
other accordingly. The truth is — he 
owns me, and the house, and he knows it. 

Since then he asks for the door, and gets 
it when he asks. He goes and comes at 
his own sweet will. When he wants to 
come in, in the daytime, he looks in at all 
the windows until he finds me. Then he 
stands on his hind legs and beats the win- 

[ 143 J 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

dow with his paws until I open it for him. 
In the night, he climbs to the bedroom 
window, and taps until he wakens me. 
You see, it is his house, not mine, and he 
knows it. What is the drollest of all — 
he is never one minute late to his meals. 

He is familiarly known to all my neigh- 
bors as " the Grand Due de Huiry " and 
he looks the part. Still, from my point of 
view, he is not an ideal cat. He is not a 
bit caressing. He never fails to purr po- 
litely when he comes in. But he is no 
longer playful. He never climbs up to 
my shoulder and rubs against my face as 
some of Amelie's commoner cats will do. 
He is intelligent and handsome — just a 
miniature tiger, and growls like a new ar- 
rival from the jungle when he is displeased 
— and he is a great ratter. Moreover 
Amelie has decided that he is an " intel- 
lectuel." 

One morning, when he had been out all 
night, and did not return until almost 
breakfast-time, he was sitting on my knee, 
making his toilette, while I argued the mat- 
ter with him. Amelie was dusting. I re- 
proached him with becoming a rodeur, and 
I told him that I should be happier about 
him if I knew where he was every night, 
and what he did. 

He yawned as if bored, jumped off my 

[ 144 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

knees and began walking round the library, 
and examining the books. 

" Well," remarked Amelie, " I can tell 
you where he goes. He has a class in 
Maria's grange, where the wheat is stored 
— a class of mice. He goes every eve- 
ning to give conferences on history and the 
war, and he eats up all the stupid pupils." 

I had to laugh, but before I could ask 
her how she knew, Khaki jumped up on 
top of the lowest line of books, and dis- 
appeared behind. 

Amelie shrugged her shoulders, and 
said : " Voila! He has gone to prepare his 
next conference." And he really had 
chosen a line of books on history. 

You see Amelie knows beasties better 
than I do. There really is a sort of free- 
masonry between certain people and dumb 
animals. I have not a bit of it, though 
I love them. You would adore to see 
Amelie play with cats. She knows how. 
And as for her conversation with them, it 
is wonderful. I remarked the fact to her 
one day, when her morning salutations with 
the cats had been unusual. She replied, 
with her customary shrug: " Eh bien, 
Madame, toujours, entre eux, les betes se 
comprennent." 

So much in brief for cat number one. 
Number two is a different matter. 

[ 145 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

In the spring, four kittens were born at 
Amelie's. They were all sorts of mon- 
grels. There was a dear little fluffy, half 
angora, which I named Garibaldi, and 
Amelie, as usual, vulgarized it at once 
into " Didine." There was a long-legged 
blue kitten which I dubbed Roi Albert. 
There was a short-legged, sturdy little en- 
ergetic striped one which I called General 
Joffre, and a yellow and black fellow, who 
was, of course, Nicolas. I regretted there 
were n't two more, or three. 

Garibaldi was about the dearest kitten 
I ever saw. He attached himself to me 
at once. When he was only a round fluffy 
ball he would try to climb into my lap 
whenever I went to see the kittens. The 
result was that when he was still very 
young, he came to live with me, and I 
never saw so altogether loveable an ani- 
mal. He has all the cat qualities I ever 
dreamed of. As Amelie says : " II a tout 
pour lui, et il ne manque que la parole." 
And it is true. He crawls up my back. 
He will lie for hours on my shoulder purr- 
ing his little soft song into my ear. He 
will sit beside me on my desk, looking at 
me with his pretty yellow eyes, as if he and 
I were the whole of his world. If I walk 
in the garden, he is under my feet. If I 
go up to Amelie's he goes too. 

[ h6 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

His attachment has its drawbacks. He 
tries to sit on my book when I am reading, 
and longs to lie on the keyboard of my 
machine when I am writing. If I try to 
read a paper when he is on my lap he 
immediately crawls under it, and gets be- 
tween my eyes and the print. I am terribly 
flattered, but his affection has its incon- 
veniences. Needless to say, Khaki hates 
him, and never passes him without growl- 
ing. Luckily Didine is not a bit afraid of 
him. Up to date they have never fought. 
Didine has a great admiration for Khaki, 
and will tag him. The difference in their 
characters is too funny. For example, if 
Didine brings a mouse into the garden 
Khaki never attempts to touch it. He will 
sit apart, indulgently watching Didine play 
with his prey, torment it, and finally kill it, 
and never offer to join in the sport. On 
the contrary, if Khaki brings in a mouse, 
Didine wants to join in the fun at once. 
Result — Khaki gives one fierce growl, 
abandons his catch and goes out of the 
garden. Difference, I suppose, between a 
thoroughbred sport and, well, a common 
cat. 

I could fill a volume with stories about 
these cats. Don't worry. I shall not. 

You ask me if I have a dog. Yes, a 
big black Caniche named Dick, a good 

[ 147 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

watch-dog, but too fond of playing. I 
call him an " india-rubber dog," because 
when he is demanding a frolic, or asking 
to have a stone thrown for him — his idea 
of happiness — he jumps up and down on 
his four stiff legs exactly like a toy woolly 
dog on an elastic. 

He is a good dog to walk with, and 
loves to " go." He is very obedient on the 
road for that reason — knows if he is 
naughty he can't go next time. 

So now you have the household com- 
plete. I '11 warrant you won't be content. 
If you are not, there is no satisfying you. 
When I pour all my political dreams on 
paper, and shout on to my machine all my 
disappointments over the attitude of 
Washington, you take offence. So what 
can I do? I cannot send you letters full 
of stirring adventures. I don't have any. 
I can't write you dramatic things about 
the war. It is not dramatic here, and that 
is as strange to me as it seems to be to 
you. 



[ 148 ] 



XVII 

October 3, 1915 

We have been as near to getting en- 
thusiastically excited as we have since the 
war began. 

Just when everyone had a mind made 
up that the Allies could not be ready to 
make their first offensive movement until 
next spring — resigned to know that it 
would not be until after a year and a half, 
and more, of war that we could see our 
armies in a position to do more than con- 
tinue to repel the attacks of the enemy — 
we all waked up on September 27 to 
the unexpected news that an offensive 
movement of the French in Champagne 
had actually begun on the 25th, and was 
successful. 

For three or four days the suspense and 
the hope alternated. Every day there was 
an advance, an advance that seemed to be 
supported by the English about Loos, and 
all the time we heard at intervals the far- 
off pounding of the artillery. 

For several days our hearts were high. 
Then there began to creep into the papers 
hints that it had been a gallant advance, 

[ 149 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

but not a great victory, and far too costly, 
and that there had been blunders, and we 
all settled back with the usual philosophy, 
studied the map of our first-line trenches 
on September 25, when the attack began, 
— running through Souain and Perthes, 
Mesnil, Massiges, and Ville sur Tourbe. 
We compared it with the line on the night 
of September 29, when the battle practi- 
cally ended, running from the outskirts of 
Auderive in the west to behind Cernay in 
the east, and took what comfort we could 
in the 25 kilometres of advance, and three 
hilltops gained. It looked but a few steps 
on the map, but it was a few steps nearer 
the frontier. 

Long before you get this, you will have 
read, in the American papers, details hid- 
den from us, though we know more about 
this event than about most battles. 

You remember the tea-party I had for 
the boys in our ambulance in June? Well, 
among the soldiers here that day was a 
chap named Litigue. He was wounded — 
his second time — on September 25, the 
first day of the battle. He was nursed in 
our ambulance the first time by Mile. Hen- 
rietta, and yesterday she had a letter from 
him, which she lets me translate for you, 
because it will give you some idea of the 
battle, of the spirit of the poilas, and also 

[ 150 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

because it contains a bit of news and an- 
swers a question you asked me several 
weeks ago, after the first use of gas at- 
tacks in the north. 

A Vhopital St. Andre de Luhzac, 
September 30, 191 5 
Mademoiselle, 

I am writing you tonight a little more 
at length than I was able to do this morn- 
ing — then I had not the time, as my nurse 
was waiting beside my bed to take the card 
to the post. I wrote it the moment I was 
able, at the same time that I wrote to my 
family. I hope it reached you. 

I am going to tell you in as few words 
as possible, how the day passed. The at- 
tack began the 25th, at exactly quarter 
past nine in the morning. The prepara- 
tory bombardment had been going on since 
the 22d. All the regiments had been as- 
sembled the night before in their shelters, 
ready to leap forward. 

At daybreak the bombardment recom- 
menced — a terrible storm of shells of 
every calibre — bombs, torpedoes — flew 
overhead to salute the Boches, and to com- 
plete the destruction which had been going 
on for three days. 

Without paying attention to the few 
obus which the Boches sent over in reply 

[ 151 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

to our storm, we all mounted the parapets 
to get a view of the scene. All along our 
front, in both directions, all we could see 
was a thick cloud of dust and smoke. For 
four hours we stood there, without saying 
a word, waiting the order to advance; 
officers, common soldiers, young and old, 
had but one thought, — to get into it and 
be done with it as quickly as possible. It 
was just nine o'clock when the officers or- 
dered us into line, ready to advance, — 
sac an dos, bayonets fixed, musettes full of 
grenades and asphyxiating bombs. Every- 
one of us knew that he was facing death 
out there, but I saw nowhere the smallest 
sign of shrinking, and at quarter past nine, 
when we got the signal to start, one cry: 
" En avant, et vive la France! " burst from 
thousands and thousands of throats, as we 
leaped out of the trenches, and it seemed 
to me that it was but one bound before 
we were on them. 

Once there I seem to remember nothing 
in detail. It was as if, by enchantment, 
that I found myself in the midst of the 
struggle, in heaps of dead and dying. 
When I fell, and found myself useless in 
the fight, I dragged myself, on my stomach, 
towards our trenches. I met stretcher- 
bearers who were willing to carry me, but 
I was able to crawl, and so many of my 

[ 152 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

comrades were worse off, that I refused. 
I crept two kilometres like that until I 
found a dressing-station. I was suffer- 
ing terribly with the bullet in my ankle. 
They extracted it there and dressed the 
ankle, but I remained, stretched on the 
ground, two days before I was removed, 
and I had nothing to eat until I reached 
here yesterday — four days after I fell. 
But that could not be helped. There were 
so many to attend to. 

I will let you know how I get on, and 
I hope for news from you. In the mean- 
time I send you my kindest regards, and 
my deep gratitude. 

Your big friend, 

Litigue, A. 

I thought you might be interested to see 
what sort of a letter a real poilu writes, 
and Litigue is just a big workman, young 
and energetic. 

You remember you asked me if the 
Allies would ever bring themselves to re- 
plying in sort to the gas attacks. You 
see what Litigue says so simply. They 
did have asphyxiating bombs. Naturally 
the most honorable army in the world can- 
not neglect to reply in sort to a weapon 
like that. When the Boches have taken 

[ 153 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

some of their own medicine the weapon 
will be less freely used. Besides, today 
our men are all protected against gas. 

I had hardly settled down to the feeling 
that the offensive was over and that there 
was another long winter of inaction — a 
winter of the same physical and material 
discomforts as the first — lack of fuel, sus- 
pense, — when the news came which makes 
my feeling very personal. The British 
offensive in the north has cost me a dear 
friend. You remember the young English 
officer who had marched around me in 
September of last year, during the days 
preceding the battle of the Marne? He 
was killed in Belgium on the morning of 
September 26 — the second day of the of- 
fensive. He was in command of an anti- 
aeroplane battery advanced in the night 
to what was considered a well-concealed 
position. The German guns, however, 
got the range. Shrapnel nearly wiped 
out the command, and the Captain was 
wounded in the head. He died at the hos- 
pital at Etaples half an hour after he ar- 
rived, and lies buried in the English ceme- 
tery on the dunes, with his face towards 
the country for which he gave his young 
life. 

I know one must not today regret such 
sacrifices. Death is — - and no one can die 

[ 154 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

better than actively for a great cause. 
But, when a loved one goes out in youth; 
when a career of achievement before which 
a really brilliant future opened, is snapped, 
one can still be proud, but it is through a 
veil of tears. 

I remember so well that Sunday morn- 
ing, the 26th of September. It was a 
beautiful day. The air was clear. The 
sun shone. I sat all the morning on the 
lawn watching the clouds, so small and 
fleecy, and listening to the far-off cannon, 
not knowing then that it meant the " big 
offensive." Oddly enough we spoke of 
him, for Amelie was examining the cherry 
tree, which she imagined had some sort 
of malady, and she said: " Do you remem- 
ber when Captain Noel was here last year 
how he climbed the tree to pick the 
cherries?" And I replied that the tree 
hardly looked solid enough now to bear 
his weight. I sat thinking of him, and his 
life of movement and activity under so 
many climes, and wondered where he was, 
little thinking that already, that very 
morning, the sun of his dear life was told, 
and that we should never, as I had 
dreamed, talk over his adventures in 
France as we had so often talked over 
those in India, in China, and in Africa. 

It is odd, but when a friend so dear as 

[ iS5 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

he was, yet whom one only saw rarely, in 
the Stapes of his active career, goes out 
across the great bourne, into the silence 
and the invisible, it takes time to realize 
it. It is only'' after a long waiting, when 
not even a message comes back, that one 
comprehends that there are to be no more 
meetings at the cross-roads. I moved one 
more portrait into the line under the flags 
tied with black — that was all. 

You hardly knew him, I know, but no 
one ever saw his upright figure, his thin, 
clear-cut features, bronzed by tropic suns, 
and his direct gaze, and forgot him. 



[ 156 ] 



XVIII 

December 6, 1915 

It is two months since I wrote — I 
know it. But you really must not reproach 
me so violently as you do in yours of the 
2 1 st of November, just received. 

To begin with, there is no occasion for 
you to worry. I may be uncomfortable. 
I am in no danger. As for the discom- 
forts — well, I am used to them. I cannot 
get coal very often, and when I do I pay 
twenty-six dollars a ton for it, and it is 
only imitation coal, at that. I cannot get 
washing done oftener than once in six 
weeks. Nothing dries out-of-doors in this 
country of damp winters. I am often 
forced to live my evenings by candle-light, 
which is pretty extravagant, as candles are 
costly, and it takes a good many to get 
through an evening. They burn down like 
paper tapers in these days. 

When I don't write it is simply because 
I have nothing more interesting than 
things like that to tell you. The situation 
is chronic, and, like chronic diseases, much 
more likely to get worse than to get better. 

[ 157 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

You should be grateful to me for sparing 
you, instead of blaming me. 

I might not have found the inspiration 
to write today if something had not 
happened. 

This morning the town crier beat his 
drum all over the hill, and read a procla- 
mation forbidding all foreigners to leave 
the commune during the next thirty days 
without a special permit from the general 
in command of the 5th Army Corps. 

No one knows what this means. I have 
been to the mairie to enquire simply be- 
cause I had promised to spend Christmas 
at Voulangis, and, if this order is formal, 
I may have difficulty in going. I have no 
desire to celebrate, only there is a child 
there, and the lives of little children ought 
not to be too much saddened by the times 
and events they do not understand. 

I was told at the mairie that they had 
no power, and that I would have to ad- 
dress myself to Monsieur le General. 
They could not even tell me what form 
the request ought to take. So I came 
home, and wrote the letter as well as I 
could. 

In the meantime, I am distinctly in- 
formed that until I get a reply from head- 
quarters I cannot go out of the commune 
of Quincy-Segy. 

[ 158 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

If I really obey the letter of this order 
I cannot even go to Amelie's. Her house 
is in the commune of Couilly, and mine 
in Quincy, and the boundary line between 
the two communes is the path beside my 
garden, on the south side, and runs up the 
middle of my road from that point. 

It is annoying, as I hardly know Quincy, 
and don't care for it, and never go there 
except to present myself at the mairle. It 
is further off the railroad line than I am 
here. Couilly I know and like. It is a 
pretty prosperous village. It has better 
shops than Quincy, which has not even a 
pharmacie, and I have always done my 
shopping there. My mail comes there, and 
the railway station is there, and everyone 
knows me. 

The idea that I can't go there gives me, 
for the first time since the battle, a shut-in 
feeling. I talked to the garde champetre, 
whom I met on the road, as I returned 
from the mairie, and I asked him what he 
thought about the risk of my going to 
Couilly. He looked properly grave, and 
said: 

" I would not, if I were in your place. 
Better run no risks until we understand 
what this is to lead to." 

I thanked him, with an expression just 
as serious and important as his. " I '11 

[ 159 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

obey," I said to myself, " though to obey 
will be comic." 

So I turned the corner on top of the 
hill. I drove close to the east side of the 
road, which was the Quincy side, and as 
I passed the entrance to Amelie's court I 
called to Pere to come out and get Ninette 
and the cart. I then climbed out and left 
the turn-out there. 

'I did not look back, but I knew Pere 
was standing in the road looking after me 
in amazement, and not understanding a 
bit that I had left my cart on the Quincy 
side of the road for him to drive it into 
Couilly, where I could not go. 

" I '11 obey," I repeated to myself, vi- 
ciously, as I strolled down the Quincy side 
of the road and crossed in front of the 
gate where the whole width of the road 
is in my commune. 

I had n't been in the house five minutes 
before Amelie arrived. 

" What 's the matter? " she demanded, 
breathlessly. 

II Nothing." 

" Why did n't you drive into the stable 
as usual? " 

" I could n't." 

" Why could n't you?" 

" Because I am forbidden to go to 
Couilly." 

[ 1 60 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I thought she was going to see the joke 
and laugh. She did n't. She was angry, 
and I had a hard time to make her see 
that it was funny. In fact, I did not really 
make her see it at all, for an hour later, 
wanting her, I went up to the Quincy 
side of the road, leaned against the wall, 
opposite her entrance, and blew my big 
whistle for ten minutes without attracting 
her attention. 

That attempt at renewing the joke had 
two results. I must tell you that one of 
the few friends who has ever been out here 
felt that the only annoying thing about my 
being so absolutely alone was that, if any- 
thing happened and I needed help, I had 
no way of letting anyone know. So I 
promised, and it was agreed with Amelie, 
that, in need, I should blow my big whistle 
— it can be heard half a mile. But that 
was over two years ago. I have never 
needed help. I have used the whistle to 
call Dick. 

I whistled and whistled and whistled 
until I was good and mad. Then I began 
to yell : " Amelie — Melie — Pere ! " and 
they came running out, looking frightened 
to death, to find me, red in the face, lean- 
ing against the wall — on the Quincy side 
of the road. 

" What 's the matter? " cried Amelie. 

[ 161 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

"Didn't you hear my whistle? " I 
asked. 

" We thought you were calling Dick." 

The joke was on me. 

When I explained that I wanted some 
fresh bread to toast and was not allowed 
to go to their house in Couilly for it, it 
ceased to be a joke at all. 

It was useless for me to laugh, and to 
explain that an order was an order, and 
that Couilly was Couilly, whether it was 
at my gate or down the hill. 

Pere's anger was funnier than my joke. 
He saw nothing comic in the situation. To 
him it was absurd. Monsieur le Gen- 
eral, commandant de la cinquieme armee 
ought to know that I was all right. If he 
did n't know it, it was high time someone 
told him. 

In his gentle old voice he made quite 
a harangue. 

All Frenchmen can make harangues. 

It was difficult for me to convince him 
that I was not in the slightest degree an- 
noyed; that I thought it was amusing; 
that there was nothing personally directed 
against me in the order; that I was only 
one of many foreigners inside the zone 
des armees; that the only way to catch 
the dangerous ones was to forbid us all 
to circulate. 

[ 162 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I might have spared myself the breath 
it took to argue with him. If I ever 
thought I could change the conviction of 
a French peasant, I don't think so since 
I have lived among them. I spent sev- 
eral days last summer trying to convince 
Pere that the sun did not go round the 
earth. I drew charts of the heavens, — 
you should have seen them — and ex- 
plained the solar system. He listened at- 
tentively — one has to listen when the 
patronne talks, you know — and I thought 
he understood. When it was all over 
— it took me three days — he said to 
me : 

" Bien. All the same, look at the sun. 
This morning it was behind Maria's house 
over there. I saw it. At noon it was 
right over my orchard. I saw it there. 
At five o'clock it will be behind the hill at 
Esbly. You tell me it does not move ! 
Why, I see it move every day. Alors — 
it moves." 

I gave it up. All my lovely exposition 
of us rolling through space had missed. 
So there is no hope of my convincing him 
that this new regulation regarding for- 
eigners is not designed expressly to annoy 
me. 

I often wonder exactly what all this war 
means to him. He reads his newspaper 

c 163 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

religiously. He seems to understand. He 
talks very well about it. But he is de- 
tached in a way. He hates it. It has aged 
him terribly. But just what it means to 
him I can't know. 



1 16 4 ] 



XIX 

Christmas Day, 191 5 

Well, here I am, alone, on my second 
war Christmas ! All my efforts to get a 
per mis de sortir failed. 

Ten days after I wrote you last, there 
was a rumor that all foreigners were to be 
expelled from the zone of military opera- 
tions. My friends in Paris began to urge 
me to close up the house and go into town, 
where I could at least be comfortable. 

I simply cannot. I am accustomed now 
to living alone. I am not fit to live among 
active people. If I leave my house, which 
needs constant care, it will get into a ter- 
rible condition, and, once out of it, there 
is no knowing what difficulty I might have 
to get back. The future is all so uncertain. 
Besides, I really want to see the thing out 
right here. 

I made two efforts to get a permission 
to go to Voulangis. It is only five miles 
away. I wrote to the commander of the. 
5th Army Corps twice. I got no answer. 
Then I was told that I could not hope to 
reach him with a personal letter — that I 
must communicate with him through the 

[ 165 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

civil authorities. I made a desperate ef- 
fort. I decided to dare the regulations 
and appeal to the commander of the gen- 
darmes at Esbly. 

There I had a queer interview — at first 
very discreet and very misleading, so far 
as they were concerned. In the end, how- 
ever, I had the pleasure of seeing my two 
letters to Monsieur le General attached 
to a long sheet of paper, full of writing, 
— my dossier, they called it. They did 
not deign to tell me why my letters, sent 
to the army headquarters, had been filed 
at the gendarmerie. I suppose that was 
none of my business. Nor did they let me 
see what was written on the long sheet to 
which the letters were attached. Finally, 
they did stoop to tell me that a gendarme 
had been to the mairie regarding my case, 
and that if I would present myself at 
Quincy the next morning, I would find a 
petition covering my demand awaiting my 
signature. It will be too late to serve the 
purpose for which it was asked, but I '11 
take it for Paris, if I can get it. 

For lack of other company I invited 
Khaki to breakfast with me today. He 
did n't promise formally to come — but 
he was there. By devoting myself to him 
he behaved very well indeed, and did not 
disturb the table decorations. Luckily, 

[ 1 66 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

they were not good to eat. He sat in a 
chair beside me, and now and then I had 
to pardon him for putting his elbow on 
the table. I did that the more graciously 
as I was surprised that he did not sit on 
it. He had his own fork, and except that, 
now and then, he got impatient and 
reached out a white paw to take a bit of 
chicken from my fork just before it 
reached my mouth, he committed no grave 
breach of table manners. He did refuse 
to keep his bib on, and he ate more than 
I did, and enjoyed the meal better. In 
fact, I should not have enjoyed it at all 
but for him. He had a gorgeous time. 

I did not invite Garibaldi. He did not 
know anything about it. He is too young 
to enjoy a " function." He played in the 
garden during the meal, happy and con- 
tent to have a huge breakfast of bread and 
gravy; he is a bread eater — thoroughly 
French. 

I even went so far as to dress for Khaki, 
and put a Christmas rose in my hair. 
Alas ! It was all wasted on him. 

This is all the news I have to send you, 
and I cannot even send a hopeful message 
for 1916. The end looks farther off for 
me than it did at the beginning of the year. 
It seems to me that the world is only now 
beginning to realize what it is up against. 

[ 167 ] 



XX 

January 23, 19 16 

Well, I have really been to Paris, and 
it was so difficult that I ask myself why I 
troubled. 

I had to await the pleasure of the com- 
mander of the Cinquieme Armee, as the 
Embassy was powerless to help me, al- 
though they did their best with great good 
will. I enclose you my sanf -conduit that 
you may see what so important a docu- 
ment is like. Then I want to tell you the 
funny thing — / never had to show it once. 

I was very curious to know just how 
important it was. I went by the way of 
Esbly. On buying my ticket I expected to 
be asked for it, as there was a printed 
notice beside the window to the ticket-office 
announcing that all purchasers of tickets 
must be furnished with a s an f -conduit. No 
one cared to see mine. No one asked for 
it on the train. No one demanded it at 
the exit in Paris. Nor, when I returned, 
did anyone ask for it either at the ticket- 
office in Paris or at the entrance to the 
train. Considering that I had waited 
weeks for it, had to ask for it three times, 

[ 168 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

had to explain what I was going to do in 
Paris, where I was going to stay, how 
long, etc., I had to be amused. 

I was really terribly disappointed. I 
had longed to show it. It seemed so chic 
to travel with the consent of a big general. 

Of course, if I had attempted to go 
without it, I should have risked getting 
caught, as, at any time, the train was liable 
to be boarded and all papers examined. 

I learned at the Embassy, where the 
military attache had consulted the Minis- 
try of War, that an arrangement was to 
be made later regarding foreigners, and 
that we were to be provided with a special 
book which, while it would not allow us 
to circulate freely, would give us the right 
to demand a permission — and get it if 
the military authorities chose. No great 
change that. 

The visit served little purpose except to 
show me a sad-looking Paris and make me 
rejoice to get back. 

Now that the days are so short, and 
it is dark at four o'clock, Paris is al- 
most unrecognizable. With shop-shutters 
closed, tramway windows curtained, very 
few street-lights — none at all on short 
streets — no visible lights in houses, the 
city looks dead. You 'd have to see it to 
realize what it is like. 

1 169 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

The weather was dull, damp, the cold 
penetrating, and the atmosphere depres- 
sing, and so was the conversation. It is 
better here on the hilltop, even though, 
now and then, we hear the guns. 

Coming back from Paris there were al- 
most no lights on the platforms at the 
railway stations, and all the coaches had 
their curtains drawn. At the station at 
Esbly the same situation — a few lights, 
very low, on the main platform, and ab- 
solutely none on the platform where I took 
the narrow-gauge for Couilly. I went 
stumbling, in absolute blackness, across the 
main track, and literally felt my way along 
the little train to find a door to my coach. 
If it had not been for the one lamp on 
my little cart waiting in the road, I could 
not have seen where the exit at Couilly 
was. It was not gay, and it was far from 
gay climbing the long hill, with the feeble 
rays of that one lamp to light the black- 
ness. Luckily Ninette knows the road in 
the dark. 

In the early days of the war it used to 
be amusing in the train, as everyone talked, 
and the talk was good. Those days are 
passed. With the now famous order 
pasted on every window: 

Taisez-vous! Mefiez-vous. 

Les oreilles ennemies vous econtent 

[ i?o ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

no one says a word. I came back from 
Paris with half a dozen officers in the 
compartment. Each one, as he entered, 
brought his hand to salute, and sat down, 
without a word. They did not even look 
at one another. It is one of the most 
marked changes in attitude that I have 
seen since the war. It is right. We were 
all getting too talkative, but it takes away 
the one charm there was in going to Paris. 

I 've had no adventures since I wrote to 
you Christmas Day, although we did have, 
a few days after that, five minutes of 
excitement. 

One day I was walking in the garden. 
It was a fairly bright day, and the sun was 
shining through the winter haze. I had 
been counting my tulips, which were com- 
ing up bravely, admiring my yellow cro- 
cuses, already in flower, and hoping the 
sap would not begin to rise in the rose 
bushes, and watching the Marne, once 
more lying like a sea rather than a river 
over the fields, and wondering how that 
awful winter freshet was going to affect 
the battle-front, when, suddenly, there was 
a terrible explosion. It nearly shook me 
off my feet. 

The letter-carrier from Quincy was just 
mounting the hill on his wheel, and he 
promptly tumbled off it. I happened to 

[ 171 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

be standing where I could see over the 
hedge, but before I could get out the stupid 
question, " What was that? " there came 
a second explosion, then a third and a 
fourth. 

They sounded in the direction of Paris. 

" Zeppelins," was my first thought, but 
that was hardly the hour for them. 

I stood rooted to the spot. I could hear 
voices at Voisins, as if all the world had 
rushed into the street. Then I saw Amelie 
running down the hill. She said nothing 
as she passed. The postman picked him- 
self up, passed me a letter, shrugged his 
shoulders, and pushed his wheel up the 
hill. 

I patiently waited until the voices ceased 
in Voisins. I could see no smoke any- 
where. Amelie came back at once, but 
she brought no explanation. She only 
brought a funny story. 

There is an old woman in Voisins, well 

on to ninety, called Mere R . The 

war is too tremendous for her localized 
mind to grasp. Out of the confusion she 
picks and clings to certain isolated facts. 
At the first explosion, she rushed, terror- 
ized, into the street, gazing up to the 
heavens, and shaking her withered old fists 
above her head, she cried in her shrill, 
quavering voice: "Now look at that! 
[ 172 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

They told us the Kaiser was dying. It 's 
a lie. It 's a lie, you see, for here he comes 
throwing his cursed bombs down on us." 

You know all this month the papers 
have had Guillaume dying of that ever- 
recurring cancer of the throat. I suppose 
the old woman thinks Guillaume is carry- 
ing all this war on in person. In a certain 
sense she is not very far wrong. 

For a whole week we got no explana- 
tion of that five minutes' excitement. Then 
it leaked out that the officer of the General 
Staff, who has been stationed at the Cha- 
teau de Conde, halfway between here and 
Esbly, was about to change his section. 
He had, in the park there, four German 
shells from the Marne battlefield, which 
had not been exploded. He did not want 
to take them with him, and it was equally 
dangerous to leave them in the park, so 
he decided to explode them, and had not 
thought it necessary to warn anybody but 
the railroad people. 

It is a proof of how simple our life is 
that such an event made conversation for 
weeks. 



[ 173 J 



XXI 

February 1 6, 1916 

Well, we are beginning to get a little 
light — we foreigners — on our situation. 
On February 2, I was ordered to present 
myself again at the mairie. I obeyed the 
summons the next morning, and was told 
that the military authorities were to pro- 
vide all foreigners inside the zone des 
armees, and all foreigners outside, who, 
for any reason, needed to enter the zone, 
with what is called a " carnet d y etran- 
gere," and that, once I got that, I would 
have the privilege of asking for a permis- 
sion to circulate, but, until that document 
was ready, I must be content not to leave 
my commune, nor to ask for any sort of 
a sauf -conduit. 

I understand that this regulation applies 
even to the doctors and infirmieres, and 
ambulance drivers of all the American 
units at work in France. I naturally im- 
agine that some temporary provision must 
be made for them in the interim. 

I had to make a formal petition for this 
famous carnet, and to furnish the military 

[ 174 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

authorities with two photographs — front 
view, — size and form prescribed. 

I looked at the mayor's secretary and 
asked him how the Old Scratch — I said 
frankly diable — I was to get photo- 
graphed when he had forbidden me to 
leave my commune, and knew as well as 
I that there was no photographer here. 

Quite seriously he wrote me a special 
permit to go to Couilly where there is a 
man who can photograph. He wrote on it 
that it was good for one day, and the 
purpose of the trip " to be photographed 
by the order of the mayor in order to get 
my carnet d'etrangere" and he solemnly 
presented it to me, without the faintest 
suspicion that it was humorous. 

Between you and me, I did not even 
use it. I had still one of the photographs 
made for my passport and other papers. 
Amelie carried it to Couilly and had it 
copied. Very few people would recognize 
me by it. It is the counterfeit present- 
ment of a smiling, fat old lady, but it is 
absolutely reglementaire in size and form, 
and so will pass muster. I have seen some 
pretty queer portraits on civil papers. 

We are promised these carnets in the 
course of " a few weeks," so, until then, 
you can think of me as, to all intents and 
purposes, really interned. 

[ 175 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

It may interest you to know that on 
the 9th, — just a week ago — a Zeppelin 
nearly got to Meaux. It was about half 
past eleven in the evening when the drums 
beat " lights out," along the hillside. 
There were n't many to put out, for every- 
one is in bed at that hour, and we have 
no street-lights, but an order is an order. 
The only result of the drum was to call 
everyone out of bed, in the hope " to see 
a Zeppelin." We neither heard nor saw 
anything. 

Amelie said with a grin next morning, 
" Eh, bien, only one thing is needed to 
complete our experiences — that a bomb 
should fall shy of its aim — the railroad 
down there — and wipe Huiry off the map, 
and write it in history." 

I am sorry that you find holes in my 
letters. It is your own fault. You do 
not see this war from my point of view 
yet — alas ! But you will. Make a note 
of that. The thing that you will not un- 
derstand, living, as you do, in a world 
going about its daily routine, out of sight, 
out of hearing of all this horror, is that 
Germany's wilful destruction is on a pre- 
conceived plan — a racial principle. The 
more races she can reduce and enfeeble the 
more room there will be for her. Germany 
wants Belgium — but she wants as few 

[ 176 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Belgians as possible. So with Poland, and 
Servia, and northeast France. She wants 
them to die out as fast as possible. It is 
a part of the programme of a people call- 
ing themselves the elect of the world — 
the only race, in their opinion, which ought 
to survive. 

She had a forty-four years' start of the 
rest of the world in preparing her pro- 
gramme. It is not in two years, or in 
three, that the rest of the world can over- 
take her. That advantage is going to 
carry her a long way. Some people still 
believe that advantage will exist to the 
end. I don't. Still, one of the over- 
whelming facts of this war is to me that: 
Germany held Belgium and northeast 
France at the end of 19 14, and yet, all 
along the Allied fronts, with Germany 
fighting on invaded territory, they cried: 
" She is beaten! " So, indeed, her strat- 
egy was. At the end of 19 15 she had two 
new allies, and held all of Servia, Monte- 
negro, and Russian Poland, and still the 
Allies persisted: "She is licked, but she 
does not know it yet." It is one of the 
finest proofs of the world's faith in the 
triumph of the Right that so many believe 
this to be true. 

You are going to come some day to 
the opinion I hold — that if we want uni- 

[ 177 J 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

versal peace we must first get rid of the 
race that does not want it or believe in 
it. Forbidden subject? I know. But when 
I resist temptation you find holes in my 
letters, and seem to imagine that I am 
taking no notice of things that happen. I 
notice fast enough, and I am so interested 
that I hope to see the condemnation, al- 
ready passed in England, against Kaiser, 
Kronprinz and Company, for " wilful 
murder," executed, even if I cannot live 
to see Germany invaded. 

This is what you get for saying, " You 
make no comment on the overrunning of 
Servia or the murder of Edith Cavell, or 
the failure of the Gallipoli adventure." 
After all, these are only details in the 
great undertaking. As we say of every 
disaster, " They will not affect the final 
result." It is getting to be a catch-word, 
but it is true. 

Germany is absolutely right in consider- 
ing Great Britain her greatest enemy. She 
knows today that, even if she could get 
to Paris or Petrograd, it would not help 
her. She would still have Britain to 
settle with. I wonder if the Kaiser has 
yet waked up to a realization of his one 
very great achievement — the reawaken- 
ing of Greater Britain? He dreamed of 
dealing his mother's country a mortal blow. 

[ 178 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

The blow landed, but it healed instead of 
killing. 

This war is infernal, diabolical — and 
farcical — if we look at the deeds that 
are done every day. Luckily we don't and 
must n't, for we all know that there are 
things in the world a million times worse 
than death, and that there are future re- 
sults to be aimed at which make death 
gloriously worth while. Those are the 
things we must look at. 

I have always told you that I did not 
find the balance of things much changed, 
and I don't. I am afraid that you cannot 
cultivate, civilize, humanize — choose your 
word — man to such a point that, so 
long as he is not emasculated, his final 
argument in the cause of honor and justice 
will not be his fists — with or without a 
weapon in them — which is equivalent to 
saying, I am afraid, that so long as there 
are two men on earth there will always 
be the chance of a fight. 

Thus far February has been a droll 
month. I have seen Februaries in France 
which have been spring-like, with the chest- 
nut trees in bud, and the primroses in 
flower, and lilacs in leaf. This February 
has been a strange mixture of spring awk- 
wardly slipping out of the lap of winter 
and climbing back again. There have been 

[ 179 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

days when the sun was so warm that I 
could drive without a rug, and found furs 
a burden; there have been wonderful 
moonlit nights; but the most of the time, 
so far, it has been nasty. On warm days 
flowers began to sprout and the buds on 
the fruit-trees to swell. That made Pere 
sigh and talk about the lune rousse. We 
have had days of wind and rain which be- 
longed in a correct March. I am begin- 
ning to realize that the life of a farmer is 
a life of anxiety. If I can take Pere's 
word for it, it is always cold when it should 
not be; the hot wave never arrives at the 
right moment; when it should be dry it 
rains; and when the earth needs water 
the rain refuses to fall. In fact, on his 
testimony, I am convinced that the weather 
is never just right, except to the mere lover 
of nature, who has nothing to lose and 
nothing to gain by its caprices. 

The strange thing is that we all stand 
it so well. If anyone had told me that 
I could have put up with the life I have 
been living for two winters and be none 
the worse for it, I should have thought 
him heartless. Yet, like the army, I am 
surely none the worse for it, and, in the 
army, many of the men are better for it. 
The youngsters who come home on leave 
are as rugged as possible. They have 
[ 180 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

straightened up and broadened their chests. 
Even the middle-aged are stronger. There 
is a man here who is a master mason, a 
hard-working, ambitious, honest chap, very 
much loved In the commune. He worked 
on my house, so I know him well. Before 
the war he was very delicate. He had 
chronic indigestion, and constantly recur- 
ring sore throats. He was pale, and his 
back was beginning to get round. As he 
has five children, he is in an ammunition 
factory. He was home the other day. I 
asked him about his health, he looked so 
rosy, so erect, and strong. He laughed, 
and replied: "Never so well in my life. 
I have n't had a cold this winter, and I 
sleep in a board shanty and have no fire, 
and I eat in a place so cold my food is 
chilled before I can swallow it. My in- 
digestion is a thing of the past. I could 
digest nails! " 

You see I am always looking for con- 
solations in the disaster. One must, you 
know. 



[ 181 ] 



XXII 

March 2, 1 91 6 

We are living these days in the atmo- 
sphere of the great battle of Verdun. We 
talk Verdun all day, dream Verdun all 
night — in fact, the thought of that great 
attack in the east absorbs every other idea. 
Not in the days of the Marne, nor in the 
trying days of Ypres or the Aisne was the 
tension so terrible as it is now. No one 
believes that Verdun can be taken, but the 
anxiety is dreadful, and the idea of what 
the defence is costing is never absent from 
the minds even of those who are firmly 
convinced of what the end must be. 

I am sending you a Forain cartoon from 
the Figaro, which exactly expresses the 
feeling of the army and the nation. 

You have only to look on a map to know 
how important the position is at Verdun, 
the supposed-to-be-strongest of the four 
great fortresses — Verdun, Toul, Epinay, 
and Belfort — which protect the only fron- 
tier by which the Kaiser has a military 
right to try to enter France, and which 
he avoided on account of its strength. 

Verdun itself is only one day's march 

[ 182 j 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

from Metz. If you study it up on a map 
you will learn that, within a circuit of thirty 
miles, Verdun is protected by thirty-six re- 
doubts. But what you will not learn is 
that this great fortification is not yet con- 
nected with its outer redoubts by the sub- 
terranean passages which were a part of 
the original scheme. It is that fact 
which is disturbing. Every engineer in 
the French army knows that the citadel 
at Metz has underground communications 
with all its circle of outer ramparts. Prob- 
ably every German engineer knows that 
Verdun's communication passages were 
never made. Is n't it strange (when we 
remember that, even in the days of walled 
cities, there were always subterraneans 
leading out of the fortified towns beyond 
the walls — wonderful works of masonry, 
intact today, like those of Provins, and 
even here on this hill) that a nation which 
did not want war should have left un- 
finished the protection of such a costly 
fortress? 

You probably knew, as usual, before we 
did, that the battle had begun. We knew 
nothing of it here until February 23, three 
days after the bombardment began, with 
the French outer lines nine miles outside 
the city, although only twenty-four hours 
after was the full force of the German 

[ 183 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

artillery let loose, with fourteen German 
divisions waiting to march against the 
three French divisions holding the position. 
Can you wonder we are anxious? 

We have been buoyed up for weeks by 
the hope of an Allied offensive — and in- 
stead came this! 

The first day's news was bad, so was 
that of the 24th. I have never since the 
war began felt such a vibrant spirit of 
anxiety about me. To add to it, just be- 
fore midnight on the 24th snow began to 
fall. In the morning there was more snow 
on the ground than I had ever seen in 
France. It was a foot deep in front of 
the house, and on the north side, where it 
had drifted, it was twice that depth. This 
was so unusual that no one seemed to know 
what to do. Amelie could not get to me. 
No one is furnished with foot-gear to walk 
in snow, except men who happen to have 
high galoshes. I looked out of the win- 
dow, and saw Pere shovelling away to 
make a path to the gate, but with an iron 
shovel it was a long passage. It was nine 
o'clock before he got the gate open, and 
then Amelie came slipping down. Pere 
was busy all day keeping that path open, 
for the snow continued to fall. 

This meant that communications were 
all stopped. Trains ran slowly on the 

[ 184 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

main lines, but our little road was blocked. 
It continued to snow for two days, and 
for two days we had no news from the 
outside world. 

On the morning of the 27th one of our 
old men went to the Demi-Lune and 
watched for a military car coming in from 
Meaux. After hours of waiting, one fi- 
nally appeared. He ran into the road and 
hailed it, and as the chauffeur put on his 
brakes, he called: 

"Et Verdun?" 

" Elle tient" was the reply, and the auto 
rushed on. 

That was all the news we had in those 
days. 

When communications were opened the 
news we got was not consoling. First 
phase of the battle closed six days ago — 
with the Germans in Douaumont, and the 
fighting still going on — but the spirit of 
the French not a jot changed. Here, 
among the civilians, they say: "Verdun 
will never fall," and out at the front, they 
tell us that the poilus simply hiss through 
their clenched teeth, as they fight and fall, 
" They shall not pass." And all the time 
we sit inactive on the hilltop holding that 
thought. It 's all we can do. 

We were livened up a bit last week be- 
cause the village clown was on his home 

[ 185 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

leave. He is a lad of twenty-three with 
a young wife and a little three-year-old 
girl, who has learned to talk since "dada" 
saw her, and is her father right over — 
full of fun, good-humor, and laughter. 

I have told you that we almost never 
hear war talk. We did hear some while 
our local clown was home, but how much 
was true and how much his imagination 
I don't know. Anyway, his drollery made 
us all laugh. His mother-in-law had died 
since he left, and when his wife wept on 
his shoulder, he patted her on the back, 
and winked over his shoulder at his ad- 
miring friends, as he said: "Chut, ma 
fille, if you are going to cry in these days 
because someone dies, you '11 have no time 
to sleep. Only think of it, the old lady 
died in bed, and that is everything which 
is most aristocratic in these days." 

I regret to say that this did not console 
wife one bit. 

As he never can tell anything without 
acting it out, he was very comic when he 
told about the battle in which the Prussian 
Guard was wiped out. He is in the artil- 
lery, and he acted out the whole battle. 
When he got to the point where the artil- 
lery was ordered to advance, he gave an 
imitation of himself scrambling on to his 
gun, and swaying there, as the horses 

[ 186 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

struggled to advance over the rough road 
ploughed with shell, until they reached the 
field where the Guard had fallen. Then 
he imitated the gesture of the officer rid- 
ing beside the guns, and stopping to look 
off at the field, as, with a shrug, he said: 
" Ah, les beaux gars" then swung his 
sabre and shouted: " En avant!" 

Then came the imitation of a gunner 
hanging on his gun as the gun-carriage 
went bumping over the dead, the sappers 
and petrole brigade coming on behind, 
ready to spray and fire the field, shouting: 
u Allez aux enfers, beaux gars de Prusse, 
et y attendre voire kaiser! " 

It was all so humorous that one was 
shocked into laughter by the meeting of 
the comic and the awful. I laughed first 
and shuddered afterward. But we do that 
a great deal these days. 

I don't think I told you that I had found 
a wonderful woman to help me one day 
in the week in the garden. Her name is 
Louise, and she was born in the commune, 
and has worked in the fields since she was 
nine years old. She is a great character, 
and she is handsome — very tall and so 
straight — thirty-three, married, with three 
children, — never been sick in her life. 
She is a brave, gay thing, and I simply 
love to see her striding along the garden 

[ i8 7 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

paths, with her head in the air, walking 
on her long legs and carrying her body as 
steadily as though she had a bucket of 
water on her head. It is beautiful. 

Well, Louise has a brother named 
Joseph, as handsome as she is, and bigger. 
Joseph is in the heavy artillery, holding a 
mountain-top in Alsace, and, would you 
believe it, he has been there twenty months, 
and has never seen a German. 

Of course, when you think of it, it is 
not so queer, really. The heavy artillery 
is miles behind the infantry, and of course 
the gunners can't see what they are firing 
at — that is the business of the officers 
and the eyes of the artillery — the aero- 
planes. Still, it is queer to think of firing 
big guns twenty months and never seeing 
the targets. Odder still, Joseph tells me 
he has never seen a wounded or a dead 
soldier since the war began. Put these 
little facts away to ponder on. It is a 
war of strange facts. 



[ i88 ] 



XXIII 

April 28, 19 1 6 

I have lived through such nerve-trying 
days lately that I rarely feel in the humor 
to write a letter. 

Nothing happens here. 

The spring has been as changeable as 
even that which New England knows. We 
had four fairly heavy snowstorms in the 
first fortnight of the awful fighting of Ver- 
dun. Then we had wet, and then unex- 
pected heat — the sort of weather in which 
everyone takes cold. I get up in the morn- 
ing and dress like a polar bear for a drive, 
and before I get back the sun is so hot I 
feel like stripping. 

There is nothing for anyone to do but 
wait for news from the front. It is the 
same old story — they are see-sawing at 
Verdun, with the Germans much nearer 
than at the beginning — and still we have 
the firm faith that they will never get 
there. Does n't it seem to prove that had 
Germany fought an honest war she could 
never have invaded France? 

Now, in addition, we 've all this strain 

[ 189 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

of waiting for news from Dublin. The 
affairs of the whole world are in a mess. 

There are many aspects of the war 
which would interest you if you were sit- 
ting down on my hilltop with me — condi- 
tions which may seem more significant than 
they are. For example, the Government 
has sent back from the front a certain 
number of men to aid in the farm work 
until the planting is done. Our commune 
does not get many of these. Our old men 
and boys and women do the work fairly 
well, with the aid of a few territorials, who 
guard the railway two hours each night 
and work in the fields in the daytime. The 
women here are used to doing field work, 
and don't mind doing more than their 
usual stunt. 

I often wonder if some of the women 
are not better off than in the days before 
the war. They do about the same work, 
only they are not bothered by their men. 

In the days before the war the men 
worked in the fields in the summer, and in 
the carrlere de pldtre, at Mareuil-les- 
Meaux, in the winter. It was a hard life, 
and most of them drank a little. It is 
never the kind of drunkenness you know in 
America, however. Most of them were 
radical Socialists in politics — which as a 
rule meant " ag'in' the government." Of 

[ 190 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

course, being Socialists and French, they 
simply had to talk it all over. The cafe 
was the proper place to do that — the pro- 
vincial cafe being the workingman's club. 
Of course, the man never dreamed of quit- 
ting until legal closing hour, and when he 
got home, if wife objected, why he just hit 
her a clip, — it was, of course, for her 
good, — " a woman, a dog, and a walnut 
tree," — you know the adage. 

Almost always in these provincial towns 
it is the woman who is thrifty, and often 
she sees but too little of her man's earnings. 
Still, she is, in her way, fond of him, tena- 
cious in her possession of him, and Sundays 
and fete days they get on together very 
handsomely. 

All the women here, married or not, 
have always worked, and worked hard. 
The habit has settled on them. Few of 
them actually expect their husbands to sup- 
port them, and they do not feel degraded 
because their labor helps, and they are 
wonderfully saving. They spend almost 
nothing on their clothes, never wear a hat, 
and usually treasure, for years, one black 
dress to wear to funerals. The children 
go to school bareheaded, in black pina- 
fores. It is rare that the humblest of these 
women has not money put aside. 

You don't have to look very deep into 

[ 191 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

the present situation to discover that, psy- 
chologically, it is queer. Marriage is, 
after all, in so many classes, a habit. Here 
are the women of the class to which I refer 
working very little harder than in the days 
before the war. Only, for nearly two 
years they have had no drinking man to 
come home at midnight either quarrel- 
some or sulky; no man's big appetite to 
cook for; no man to wash for or to mend 
for. They have lived in absolute peace, 
gone to bed early to a long, unbroken sleep, 
and get twenty-five cents a day govern- 
ment aid, plus ten cents for each child. As 
they all raise their own vegetables, keep 
chickens and rabbits, and often a goat, 
manage to have a little to take to market, 
and a little time every week to work for 
other people, and get war prices for their 
time, — well, I imagine you can work out 
the problem yourself. 

Mind you, there is not one of these 
women, who, in her way, will not assure 
you that she loves her husband. She 
would be drawn and quartered before she 
would harm him. If anything happens to 
him she will weep bitterly. But, under my 
breath, I can assure you that there is many 
a woman of that class a widow today who 
is better off for it, and so are her children. 
The husband who died " en hero," the 

[ 192 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

father dead for his country, is a finer figure 
in the family life than the living man ever 
was or could have been. 

Of course, it is in the middle classes, 
where the wives have to be kept, where 
marriage is less a partnership than in the 
working classes and among the humbler 
commercial classes, that there is so much 
suffering. But that is the class which in- 
variably suffers most in any disaster. 

I do not know how characteristic of the 
race the qualities I find among these people 
are, nor can I, for lack of experience, be 
sure in what degree they are absolutely 
different from those of any class in the 
States. For example — this craving to 
own one's home. Almost no one here 
pays rent. There is a lad at the foot of 
the hill, in Voisins, who was married just 
before the war. He has a tiny house of 
two rooms and kitchen which he bought 
just before his marriage for the sum of 
one hundred and fifty francs — less than 
thirty dollars. He paid a small sum down, 
and the rest at the rate of twenty cents a 
week. There is a small piece of land 
with it, on which he does about as inten- 
sive farming as I ever saw. But it is his 
own. 

The woman who works in my garden 
owns her place. She has been paying for 

[ 193 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

it almost ever since she was married, — 
sixteen years ago, — and has still forty- 
dollars to pay. She cultivates her own 
garden, raises her own chickens and rab- 
bits, and always has some to sell. Her 
husband works in the fields for other 
people, or in the quarries, and she con- 
siders herself prosperous, as she has been 
able to keep her children in school, and 
owes no one a penny, except, of course, the 
sum due on her little place. She has 
worked since she was nine, but her children 
have not, and, when she dies, there will be 
something for them, if it is no more than 
the little place. In all probability, before 
that time comes, she will have bought more 
land — to own ground is the dream of 
these people, and they do it in such a 
strange way. 

I remember in my girlhood, when I 
knew the Sandy River Valley country so 
well, that when a farmer wanted to buy 
more land he always tried, at no matter 
what sacrifice, to get a piece adjoining 
what he already owned, and put a fence 
around it. It is different here. People 
own a piece of land here, and a piece there, 
and another piece miles away, and there 
are no fences. 

For example, around Pere Abelard's 
house there is a fruit garden and a kitchen 

[ 194 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

garden. The rest of his land is all over 
the place. He has a big piece of woodland 
at Pont aux Dames, where he was born, 
and another on the route de Mareuil. He 
has a field on the route de Couilly, and an- 
other on the side of the hill on the route 
de Meaux, and he has a small patch of 
fruit trees and a potato field on the chemin 
Madame, and another big piece of grass- 
land running down the hill from Huiry to 
Conde. 

Almost nothing is fenced in. Grain 
fields, potato patches, beet fields belonging 
to different people touch each other with- 
out any other barrier than the white 
stones, almost level with the soil, put in 
by the surveyors. 

Of course they are always in litigation, 
but, as I told you, a lawsuit is a cachet of 
respectability in France. 

As for separating .a French man or 
woman from the land — it is almost im- 
possible. The piece of woodland that 
Abelard owns at Pont aux Dames is 
called " Le Paradis." It is a part of his 
mother's estate, and his sicter, who lives 
across the Morin, owns the adjoining lot. 
It is of no use to anyone. They neither of 
them ever dream of cutting the wood. 
Now and then, when we drive, we go and 
look at it, and Pere tells funny stories of 

[ 195 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

the things he did there when he was a lad. 
It is full of game, and not long ago he had 
an offer for it. The sum was not big, 
but invested would have added five hun- 
dred francs a year to his income. But no 
one could make either him or his sister 
resolve to part with it. So there it lies 
idle, and the only thing it serves for is to 
add to the tax bill every year. But they 
would rather own land than have money 
in the bank. Land can't run away. They 
can go and look at it, press their feet on 
it, and realize that it is theirs. 

I am afraid the next generation is going 
to be different, and the disturbing thing is 
that it is the women who are changing. 
So many of them, who never left the coun- 
try before, are working in the ammunition 
factories and earning unheard-of money, 
and spending it, which is a radical and 
alarming feature of the situation. 

You spoke in one of your recent letters 
of the awful cost of this war in money. 
But you must remember that the money is 
not lost. It is only redistributed. Whether 
or not the redistribution is a danger is 
something none of us can know yet; that 
is a thing only the future can show. One 
thing is certain, it has forcibly liberated 
women. 

You ask how the cats are. They are re- 

[ 196 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

markable. Khaki gets more savage every 
day, and less like what I imagined a house 
cat ought to be. He has thrashed every 
cat in the commune except Didine, and 
never got a scratch to show for it. But 
he has never scratched me. I slapped him 
the other day. He slapped back, — but 
with a velvet paw, never even showed a 
claw. 

Did n't you always think a cat hated 
water? I am sure I did. He goes out in 
all weathers. Last winter he played in the 
snow like a child, and rolled in it, and no 
rainstorm can keep him in the house. The 
other day he insisted on going out in a 
pouring rain, and I got anxious about him. 
Finally I went to the door and called him, 
and, after a while, he walked out of the 
dog's kennel, gave me a reproachful look 
as if to say, " Can't you leave a chap in 
peace? " and returned to the kennel. The 
one thing he really hates is to have me 
leave the house. He goes where his sweet 
will leads him, but he seems to think that 
I should be always on the spot. 



[ 197 ] 



XXIV 

May 23, 1916 
I begin to believe that we shall have no 
normal settled weather until all this cannon 
play is over. We 've had most unseason- 
able hailstorms which have knocked all the 
buds off the fruit-trees, so, in addition to 
other annoyances, we shall have no fruit 
this year. 

There is nothing new here except that 
General Foch is in the ambulance at 
Meaux. No one knows it; not a word has 
appeared in the newspapers. It was the 
result of a stupid, but unavoidable, auto- 
mobile accident. To avoid running over 
a woman and child on a road near here, 
the automobile, in which he was travelling 
rapidly in company with his son-in-law, 
ran against a tree and smashed. Luckily 
he was not seriously hurt, though his head 
got damaged. 

On Thursday Poincare passed over our 
hill, with Briand, en route to meet Joffre at 
the General's bedside. I did not see them, 
but some of the people at Quincy did. It 
was a lucky escape for Foch. He would 
have hated to die during this war of a 

[ 198 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

simple, unmilitary automobile accident, and 
the army could ill afford just now to lose 
one of the heroes of the Marne. Care- 
fully as the fact has been concealed, we 
knew it here through our ambulance, which 
is a branch of that at Meaux, where he is 
being nursed. 

Three months since the battle at Verdun 
began, and it is still going on, with the 
Germans hardly more than four miles 
from the city, and yet it begins to look as 
if they knew themselves that the battle — 
the most terrible the world has ever seen 
— was a failure. Still, I have changed my 
mind. I begin to believe that had Ger- 
many centred all her forces on that frontier 
in August, 1 9 14, when her first-line troops 
were available, and their hopes high, she 
would probably have passed. No one can 
know that, but it is likely, and many mili- 
tary men think so. Is n't it a sort of poetic 
justice to think that it is even possible that 
had Germany fought an honorable war she 
might have got to Paris? "Whom the 
gods destroy, they first make mad." 

I do nothing but work in the garden on 
rare days when it does not rain, and listen 
to the cannon. That can't be very inter- 
esting stuff to make a letter of. The silence 
here, which was so dear to me in the days 
when I was preparing the place, still hangs 

[ 199 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

over it. But, oh, the difference ! Now and 
then, in spite of one's self, the very thought 
of all that is going on so very near us re- 
fuses to take its place and keep in the 
perspective, it simply jumps out of the 
frame of patriotism and the welfare of 
the future. Then the only thing to do is 
to hunt for the visible consolations — and 
one always finds them. 

For example — would n't it seem logical 
that such a warfare would brutalize the 
men who are actually in it? It doesn't. 
It seems to have just the contrary effect. 
I can't tell you how good the men are to 
one another, or how gentle they are to the 
children. It is strange that it should be 
so, but it is. I don't try to understand it, 
I merely set it down for you. 



[ 20 ° j 



XXV 

June l6, 1916 

You can imagine how trying and unsea- 
sonable the weather is when I tell you that 
I not only had a fire yesterday, but that I 
went to bed with a hotwater bottle. Im- 
agine it ! I have only been able to eat out- 
of-doors once so far. 

This is not a letter — just a line, lest 
you worry if you do not hear that I am 
well. I am too anxiously watching that 
see-saw at Verdun, with the German army 
only four miles from the city, at the end of 
the fourth month, to talk about myself, 
and in no position to write about things 
which you know. One gets dumb, though 
not hopeless. To add to our anxieties the 
crops are not going to be good. It was 
continually wet at planting time, and so 
cold, and there has been so little sun that 
potatoes are rotting in the fields already, 
and the harvest will be meagre. The 
grain, especially that planted last fall, is 
fairly good, but, as I told you, after the 
tempest we had, there is to be no fruit. 
When I say none, I absolutely mean none. 
I have not one cherry. Louise counted 

[ 201 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

six prunes on my eight trees, and I have 
just four pears and not a single apple. 
Pere's big orchard is in the same condition. 
In addition, owing to the terrible damp- 
ness, — the ground is wet all the time, — 
the slugs eat up all the salad, spoil all the 
strawberries, and chew off every young 
green thing that puts its head above the 
ground, and that in spite of very hard work 
on my part. Every morning early, and 
every afternoon, at sundown, I put in an 
hour's hard work, — hard, disgusting 
work, — picking them up with the tongs 
and dropping them into boiling water. So 
you see every kind of war is going on at 
the same time. Where is the good of wish- 
ing a bad harvest on Germany, when we 
get it ourselves at the same time? How- 
ever, I suppose that you in the States can 
help us out, and England has jolly well 
fixed it so that no one can easily help Ger- 
many out. 



" 202 ' 



XXVI 

August 4, 1916 

Well, here we are in the third year of 
the war, as Kitchener foresaw, and still 
with a long way to go to the frontier. 

Thanks, by the way, for the article about 
Kitchener. After all, what can one say of 
such an end for such a man, after such a 
career, in which so many times he might 
have found a soldier's death — then to be 
drowned like a rat, doing his duty? It 
leaves one simply speechless. I was, you 
see. I had n't a comment to throw at 
you. 

It 's hot at last, I 'm thankful to say, 
and equally thankful that the news from 
the front is good. It is nothing to 
throw one's hat in the air about, but 
every kich in the right direction is at least 
prophetic. 

Nothing to tell you about. Not the 
smallest thing happens here. I do nothing 
but read my paper, fuss in the garden, 
which looks very pretty, do up a bundle 
for my filleul once in a while, write a few 
letters, and drive about, at sundown, in 
my perambulator. If that is not an absurd 

[ 203 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

life for a lady in the war zone in these 
days, I 'd like to know what it is. 

I hope this weather will last. It is good 
for the war and good for the crops. But 
I am afraid I shall hope in vain. 



[ 204 ] 



XXVII 

September 30, 1 9 16 

This has been the strangest summer I 
ever knew. There have been so few really 
summer days. I could count the hot days 
on my fingers. None of the things have 
happened on which I counted. 

What a disappointment poor Russia has 
been to the big world, which knew nothing 
about her except that she could put fifteen 
millions of men in the field. However, as 
we say, " all that is only a detail." We 
are learning things every day. Nothing 
has opened our eyes more than seeing set 
at naught our conviction that, once the 
Rumanian frontier was opened to the Rus- 
sians, they would be on the Danube in no 
time. 

Do you remember how glibly we talked 
of the " Russian steam-roller," in Septem- 
ber, 1 9 14? I remember that, at that time, 
I had a letter from a very clever chap who 
told me that " expert military men " looked 
to see the final battle on our front, some- 
where near Waterloo, before the end of 
October, and that even " before that, the 
Russian steam-roller would be crushing its 

[ 205 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

way to Berlin." How much expert mili- 
tary men have learned since then! 

Still, was n't it, in a certain sense, lucky 
that, in spite of the warning of Kitchener, 
we did not, in the beginning, realize the 
road we had to travel? As I look back 
on the two years, it all looks to me more 
and more remarkable, seen even at this 
short perspective, that the Allied armies, 
and most of all, the civilians behind the 
lines have, in the face of the hard happen- 
ings of each day, stood up, and taken it 
as they have, and hoped on. 

I have got' into a mood where it seems 
simply stupid to talk about it, since I am, 
as usual, only eternally a spectator. I only 
long to keep my eyes raised in a wide arc 
towards the end, to live each day as I can, 
and wait. So why should I try to write 
to you of things which I do not see, and 
of which only the last, faint, dying ripples 
reach us here? 

You really must not pity me, as you in- 
sist upon doing, because military restric- 
tions draw a line about me, which I may 
not cross at my own sweet will. I am used 
to it. It is not hard. For that matter, it 
is much more trying to my French neigh- 
bors than it is to me. 

I seem never to have told you that even 
they may not leave the commune without 
[ 206 ] 




The Chateau Gate 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

a sanf -conduit. To be sure, they have only 
to go to the mairie, and ask for it, to 
get it. 

For months now the bridge over the 
Marne, at Meaux, has been guarded, and 
even those going to market cannot cross 
without showing their papers. The for- 
mality is very trying to them, for the 
reason that the mairie opens at eight, and 
closes at twelve not to reopen again until 
three and close at six. You see those hours 
are when everyone is busiest in the fields. 
The man or woman who has to go to mar- 
ket on Saturday must leave work stand- 
ing and make a long trip into Quincy — 
and often they have three or four miles 
to go on foot to do it — just at the 
hour when it is least easy to spare the 
time. 

To make it harder still, a new order 
went out a few weeks ago. Every man, 
woman, and child (over fifteen) in the war 
zone has to have, after October i, a carte 
d'identite, to which must be affixed a 
photograph. 

This regulation has resulted in the 
queerest of embarrassments. A great 
number of these old peasants — and young 
ones too — never had a photograph taken. 
There is no photographer. The photog- 
rapher at Esbly and the two at Meaux 

[ 207 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

could not possibly get the people all photo- 
graphed, and, in this uncertain weather, 
the prints made, in the delay allowed by 
the military authorities. A great cry of 
protestation went up. Photographers of 
all sorts were sent into the commune. The 
town crier beat his drum like mad, and 
announced the places where the photog- 
raphers would be on certain days and 
hours, and ordered the people to assemble 
and be snapped. 

One of the places chosen was the court- 
yard at Amelie's, and you would have 
loved seeing these bronzed old peasants 
facing a camera for the first time. Some 
of the results were funny, especially when 
the hurried and overworked operator got 
two faces on the same negative, as hap- 
pened several times. 

Real autumn weather is here, but, for 
that matter, it has been more like autumn 
than summer since last spring. The fields 
are lovely to see on days when the sun 
shines. I drove the other day just for the 
pleasure of sitting in my perambulator, 
on the hillside, and looking over the slope 
of the wide wheat fields, where the women, 
in their cotton jackets and their wide hats, 
were reaping. The harvesting never 
looked so picturesque. I could pick out, 
in the distance, the tall figure of my Louise, 
[ 208 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

with a sheaf on her head and a sickle in 
her hand, striding across the fields, and 
I thought how a painter would have loved 
the scene, with the long rays of the late 
September sunset illuminating the yellow 
stretch. 

Last Wednesday we had a little excite- 
ment here, because sixteen German pris- 
oners, who were working on a farm at 
Vareddes, escaped — some of them dis- 
guised as women. 

I was n't a bit alarmed, as it hardly 
seemed possible that they would venture 
near houses in this district, but Pere was 
very nervous, and every time the dog 
barked he was out in the road to make 
sure that I was all right. 

Oddly enough, it happened on the very 
day when two hundred arrived at Meaux 
to work in the sugar refinery. The next 
day there was a regular battue, as the gen- 
darmes beat up the fields and woods in 
search of the fugitives. 

If they caught them, they don't tell, 
but we have been ordered to harbor no 
strangers under a severe penalty. But 
that condition has really existed since the 
war broke out, as no one is even allowed 
to engage a workman whose papers have 
not been vise at the malrie. 

I have had to have a wood fire today — 

[ 209 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

it is alarming, with winter ahead, and so 
little fuel, to have to begin heating up at 
the end of September — three weeks or a 
month earlier than usual. 



[ 210 ] 



XXVIII 

November 25, 1916 
It is raining, — a cold and steady down- 
pour. I don't feel in the least like writing 
a letter. This is only to tell you that I 
have got enough anthracite coal to go to 
the end of February, and that the house 
is warm and cosy, and I am duly thankful 
to face this third war-winter free from 
fear of freezing. It cost thirty-two dollars 
a ton. How does that sound to you? 

I have planted my tulip bulbs, cleaned 
up the garden for winter and settled down 
to life inside my walls, with my courage 
in both hands, and the hope that next 
spring's offensive will not be a great 
disappointment. 

In the meantime I am sorry that Franz 
Josef did not live to see this war of his out 
and take his punishment. I used to be so 
sorry for him in the old days, when it 
seemed as if Fate showered disasters on 
the heads of the Hapsburgs. I wasted 
my pity. The blows killed everyone in the 
family but father. The way he stood it 
and never learned to be kind or wise 
proved how little he needed pity. 

[ 211 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

All the signs say a cold winter. How 
I envy hibernating animals! I want to 
live to see this thing out, but it would be 
nice to crawl into a hole, like a bear, and 
sleep comfortably until the sun came out 
in the spring, and the seeds began to 
sprout, and the army was thawed out, and 
could move. In the silence on this hilltop, 
where nothing happens but dishwashing 
and bedmaking and darning stockings, it 
is a long way to springtime, even if it 
comes early. 

I amused myself last week by defying 
the consign. I had not seen a gendarme 
on the road for weeks. I had driven to 
Couilly once or twice, though to do it I 
had to cross " the dead line." I had met 
the garde champetre there, and even talked 
to him, and he had said nothing. So, hear- 
ing one day that my friend from Voulan- 
gis had a permission to drive to the train 
at Esbly, and that she was returning about 
nine in the morning, I determined to meet 
her on the road, and at least see how she 
was looking and have a little chat. I felt 
a longing to hear someone say: " Hulloa, 
you," — just a few words in English. 

So if you could have seen the road, just 
outside of Couilly, Thursday morning, just 
after nine, you would have seen a Southern 
girl sitting in a high cart facing east, and 

[ 212 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

an elderly lady in a donkey cart facing 
west, and the two of them watching the 
road ahead for the coming of a bicycle 
pedalled by a gendarme with a gun on his 
back, as they talked like magpies. It was 
all so funny that I was convulsed with 
laughter. There we were, two innocent, 
harmless American women, talking of our 
family affairs and our gardens, our fuel, 
our health, and behaving like a pair of 
conspirators. We did n't dare to get out 
to embrace each other, for fear — in case 
we saw a challenge coming — that I could 
not scramble back and get away quickly 
enough, and we only stayed a quarter of 
an hour. We might just as well have car- 
ried our lunch and spent the day so far as 
I could see — only if anyone had passed 
and had asked for our papers there would 
have been trouble. However, we had our 
laugh, and decided that it was not worth 
while to risk it again. But I could not help 
asking myself how, with all their red tape, 
they ever caught any real suspect. 

Do you remember that I told you some 
time ago about Louise's brother, Joseph, in 
the heavy artillery, who had never seen a 
Boche? Well, he is at home again for his 
eight days. He came to see me yesterday. 
I said to him: "Well, Joseph, where did 
you come from this time? " 

[ 213 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

" From the same place — the mountains 
in Alsace. We 've not budged for nearly 
two years." 

" How long are you going to stay 
there?" 

" To the end of the war, I imagine." 

" But why? " I asked. 

"What can we do, madame?" he re- 
plied. " There we are, on the top of a 
mountain. We can't get down. The Ger- 
mans can't get up. They are across the 
valley on the top of a hill in the same 
fix." 

" But what do you do up there?" I 
demanded. 

"Well," he replied, "we watch the 
Germans, or at least the aeroplanes do — 
we can't see them. They work on their 
defenses. They pull up new guns and 
shift their emplacements. We let them 
work. Then our big guns destroy their 
work." 

" But what do they do, Joseph? " 

" Well, they fire a few shots, and go to 
work again. But I '11 tell you something, 
madame, as sure as that we are both liv- 
ing, they would not do a thing if we would 
only leave them in peace, — but we don't." 

" Well, Joseph," I asked, " have you 
seen a Boche yet? " 

" Oh, yes, madame, I 've seen them. I 

[ 214 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

see them, with a glass, working in the 
fields, ploughing, and getting ready to 
plant them." 

" And you don't do anything to prevent 
them?" ' 

" Well, no. We can't very well. They 
always have a group of women and chil- 
dren with every gang of workmen. They 
know, only too well, that French guns will 
not fire at that kind of target. It is just 
the same with their commissary trains — 
always women at the head, in the middle, 
and in the rear." 

Comment is unnecessary! 



[ 215 ] 



XXIX 

December 6, 1916 

Well, at last, the atmosphere on the 
hilltop is all changed. We have a canton- 
nement de regiment again, and this time 
the most interesting that we have ever had, 
— the 23d Dragoons, men on active serv- 
ice, who are doing infantry work in the 
trenches at Tracy-le-Val, in the Foret de 
Laigue, the nearest point to Paris, in the 
battle-front. 

It is, as usual, only the decorative and 
picturesque side of war, but it is tremen- 
dously interesting, more so than anything 
which has happened since the Battle of the 
Marne. 

As you never had soldiers quartered on 
you - — and perhaps you never will have — 
I wish you were here now. 

It was just after lunch on Sunday — a 
grey, cold day, which had dawned on a 
world covered with frost — that there 
came a knock at the salon door. I opened 
it, and there stood a soldier, with his heels 
together, and his hand at salute, who said: 
" Bon jour, madame, avez-vous un lit pour 
un soldat? " 
[ 216 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Of course I had a bed for a soldier, and 
said so at once. 

You see it is all polite and formal, but 
if there is a corner in the house which can 
serve the army the army has a right to it. 
Everyone is offered the privilege of being 
prettily gracious about it, and of letting it 
appear as if a favor were being extended 
to the army, but, in case one does not yield 
willingly, along comes a superior officer 
and imposes a guest on the house. 

However, that sort of thing never hap- 
pens here. In our commune the soldiers 
are loved. The army is, for that matter, 
loved all over France. No matter what 
else may be compile, the crowd never fails 
to cry "Vive VArmee!" although there 
are places where the soldier is not loved 
as a visitor. 

I asked the adjutant in, and showed him 
the room. He wrote it down in his book, 
saluted me again with a smiling, " Merci 
bien, madame," and went on to make the 
rounds of the hamlet, and examine the re- 
sources of Voisins, Joncheroy, and Quincy. 

The noncommissioned officers, who ar- 
range the cantonnements, are very clever 
about it. They seem to know, by instinct, 
just what sort of a man to put in each 
house, and they rarely blunder. 

All that Sunday afternoon they were 

[ 217 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

running around in the mud and the cold 
drizzle that was beginning to fall, arrang- 
ing, not only quarters for the men, but 
finding shelter for three times as many 
horses, and that was not easy, although 
every old grange on the hilltop was cleaned 
out and put in order. 

For half an hour the adjutant tried to 
convince himself that he could put four 
horses in the old grange on the north side 
of my house. I was perfectly willing, 
only I knew that if one horse kicked once, 
the floor of the loft would fall on him, and 
that if four horses kicked once, at least 
three walls would fall in on them. That 
would not be so very important to me, but 
I 'd hate to have handsome army horses 
killed like that on my premises. 

He finally decided that I was right, and 
then I went with him up to Amelie's to see 
what we could do. I never realized what 
a ruin of a hamlet this is until that after- 
noon. By putting seven horses in the old 
grange at Pere's, — a tumble-down old 
shack, where he keeps lumber and dead 
farm wagons, — he never throws away 
or destroys anything — we finally found 
places for all the horses. There were 
eleven at Pere's, and it took Amelie and 
Pere all the rest of the afternoon to run 
the stuff out of the old grange, which 

[ 218 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

stands just at the turn of the road, and 
has a huge broken door facing down the 
hill. 

I often mean to send you a picture of 
that group of ruins — there are five build- 
ings in it. They were originally all joined 
together, but some of them have had to 
be pulled down because they got too dan- 
gerous to stand, and in the open spaces 
there is, in one place, a pavement of red 
tiles, and in another the roof to a cellar, 
with stone steps leading up to it. Not a 
bit of it is of any use to anyone, though 
the cellars under them are used to store 
vegetables, and Amelie keeps rabbits in 
one. 

It was while we were arranging all this, 
and Amelie was assuring them that they 
were welcome, but that she would not guar- 
antee that the whole group of ruins would 
not fall on their heads (and everything 
was as gay as if we were arranging a 
week-end picnic rather than a shelter for 
soldiers right out of the trenches), that 
the adjutant explained how it happened 
that, in the third year of the war, the 
fighting regiments were, for the first time, 
retiring as far as our hill for their repos. 

He told us that almost all the cavalry 
had been dismounted to do infantry work 
in the trenches, but their horses were 

[ 219 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

stalled in the rear. It had been found 
that the horses were an embarrassment so 
near to the battle-front, and so it had been 
decided to retire them further behind the 
line, and send out part of the men to keep 
them exercised and in condition, giving the 
men in turn three weeks in the trenches 
and three weeks out. 

They had first withdrawn the horses to 
Nanteuil-le-Haudrouin a little northwest 
of us, about halfway between us and the 
trenches in the Foret de Laigue. But that 
cantonnement had not been satisfactory, 
so they had retired here. 

By sundown everything was arranged 
— four hundred horses along the hilltop, 
and, they tell us, over fifteen thousand 
along the valley. We were told that the 
men were leaving Nanteuil the next morn- 
ing, and would arrive during the afternoon. 

It was just dusk on Monday when they 
began riding up the hill, each mounted man 
leading two riderless horses. 

It was just after they passed that there 
came a knock at the salon door. 

I opened it with some curiosity. When 
you are to lodge a soldier in a house as 
intimately arranged as this one is, I defy 
anyone not to be curious as to what the 
lodger is to be like. 

There stood a tall, straight lad, booted 
" 220 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

and spurred, with a crop in one gloved 
hand, and the other raised to his fatigue 
cap in salute, and a smile on his bonny 
face, — as trig in his leather belted bleu 
de del tunic as if ready for parade, and 
not a sign of war about him but his 
uniform. 

" Bon jour, madame," he said. " Per- 
mit me to introduce myself. Aspirant 
B , 23d Dragoons." 

" Regular army? " I said, for I knew by 
the look of him that this was a profes- 
sional soldier. 

" St. Cyr," he replied. That is the 
same as our West Point. 

" You are welcome, Aspirant," I said. 
11 Let me show you to your room." 

" Thank you," he smiled. " Not yet. 
I only came to present myself, and thank 
you in advance for your courtesy. I am 
in command of the squad on your hill, re- 
placing an officer who is not yet out of the 
hospital. I must see my men housed and 
the horses under shelter. May I ask you, 
if my orderly comes with my kit, to show 
him where to put it, and explain to him 
how he may best get in and out of the 
house, when necessary, without disturbing 
your habits? " 

I had to laugh as I explained to him 
that locking up, when soldiers were in the 

[ 221 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

hamlet, was hardly even a formality, and 
that the orderly could come and go at his 
will. 

" Good," he replied. " Then I '11 give 
myself the pleasure of seeing you after 
dinner. I hope I shall in no way disturb 
you. I am always in before nine," and 
he saluted again, backed away from the 
door, and marched up the hill. He liter- 
ally neither walked nor ran, he marched. 

I wish I could give you an idea of what 
he looks like. At first sight I gave him 
nineteen years at the outside, in spite of 
his height and his soldierly bearing and his 
dignity. 

Before he came in at half past eight 
his orderly had brought his kit, unpacked 
and made himself familiar with the lay of 
the house, and made friends with Amelie. 
So the Aspirant settled into an armchair 
in front of the fire — having asked my per- 
mission — to chat a bit, and account for 
himself, and it was evident to me that he 
had already been asking questions regard- 
ing me — spurred, as usual, by the surprise 
of finding an American here. As the offi- 
cers' mess is at the foot of the hill, at 
Voisins, that had been easy. 

So, knowing intuitively, just by his man- 
ner and his words, that he had asked ques- 
tions about me — he even knew that I had 
[ 222 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

been here from the beginning of the war 
— I, with the privilege of my white hairs, 
asked him even how old he was. He told 
me he was twenty — a year older than I 
thought — that he was an only son, that 
his father was an officer in the reserves 
and they lived about forty-five miles the 
other side of Rheims, that his home was 
in the hands of the Germans, and the 
house, which had been literally stripped of 
everything of value, was the headquarters 
of a staff officer. And it was all told so 
quietly, so simply, with no sign of emotion 
of any sort. 

At exactly nine o'clock he rose to his 
feet, clicked his heels together, made me a 
drawing-room bow, of the bestrform, as he 
said : " Eh, bien, madame, je vons quitte. 
Bon soir et bonne nuit." Then he backed 
to the foot of the stairs, bowed again, 
turned and went up lightly on the toes of 
his heavy boots, and I never heard another 
sound of him. 

Of course in twenty-four hours he be- 
came the child of the house. I feel like 
a grandmother to him. As for Amelie, 
she falls over herself trying to spoil him, 
and before the second day he became 
" Monsieur Andre " to her. Catch her 
giving a boy like that his military title, 
though he takes his duties most seriously. 

[ 223 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

The weather is dreadful — cold, damp, 
drizzly, but he is in and out, and the busi- 
est person you can imagine. There is n't 
a horse that has to have his feet washed 
that he is n't on the spot to see it done 
properly. There is n't a man who has a 
pain that he is n't after him to see if he 
needs the doctor, — and I don't need to 
tell you that his men love him, and so do 
the horses. 

I am taking a full course in military 
habits, military duties, and military eti- 
quette. I smile inside myself sometimes 
and wonder how they can keep it up dur- 
ing these war times. But they do. 

This morning he came down at half past 
seven ready to lead his squad on an exer- 
cise ride. I must tell you that the soldier 
who comes downstairs in the morning, in 
his big coat and kepi, ready to mount his 
horse, is a different person from the smil- 
ing boy who makes me a ballroom bow at 
the foot of the stairs in the evening. He 
comes down the stairs as stiff as a ramrod, 
lifts his gloved hand to his kepi, as he says, 
" Bon jour, madame, vous allez bien ce 
matin?" 

This morning I remarked to him as he 
was ready to mount: " Well, young man, 
I advise you to turn up your collar; the 
air is biting." 
[ 224 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

He gave me a queer look as he replied: 
" Merci, — pas reglementalre" — but he 
had to laugh, as he shook his head at 
me, and marched out to his horse. 

You do not need to be told how all this 
changes our life here, and yet it does not 
bring into it the sort of emotion I antici- 
pated. Thus far I have not heard the war 
mentioned. The tramping of horses, the 
moving crowd of men, simply give a new 
look to our quiet hamlet. 

This cantonnement is officially called a 
" repos " but seems little like that to me. 
It seems simply a change of work. Every 
man has three horses to groom, to feed, 
to exercise, three sets of harness to keep 
in order, stables to clean. But they are 
all so gay and happy, and as this is the 
first time in eighteen months that any of 
them have slept in beds they are enjoy- 
ing it. 

Of course, I have little privacy. You 
know how my house is laid out — the front 
door opens into the salon, and the stair- 
case is there also. When the Aspirant is 
not on duty outside he has to be here where 
he can be found, so he sits at the salon 
desk to do his writing and fix up his papers 
and reports, and when he is not going up 
and down stairs his orderly is. There 
seems always to be a cleaning of boots, 

[ 225 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

brushing of coats, and polishing of spurs 
and rubbing up of leather going on 
somewhere. 

It did not take the men long to discover 
that there was always hot water in my 
kitchen, and that they were welcome to it 
if they would keep the kettles filled, and 
that I did not mind their coming and going 
— and I don't, for a nicer crowd of men 
I never saw. They are not only ready, 
they are anxious, to do all sorts of odd 
jobs, from hauling coal and putting it in, 
to cleaning the chimneys and sweeping the 
terrace. When they groom the horses they 
always groom Gamin, our dapple-grey 
pony, and Ninette, which were never so 
well taken care of in their lives — so 
brushed and clipped that they are both 
handsomer than I knew. Though the regi- 
ment has only been here three days every 
day has had its special excitement. 

The morning after they got here we 
had a royal ten minutes of laughter and 
movement. 

In the old grange at the top of the hill, 
where they stabled seven horses, there had 
been a long bar across the back wall, fixed 
with cement into the side walls, and used 
to fasten the wagons. They found it just 
right to tie the horses. It was a fine morn- 
ing, for a wonder. The sun was shining, 
[ 226 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

and all the barn doors were open to it. 
The Aspirant and I were standing on the 
lawn just before noon — he had returned 
from his morning ride — looking across 
the Marne at the battlefield. The regi- 
ment had been in the battle, — but he was, 
at that time, still at St. Cyr. Suddenly 
we heard a great rumpus behind us, and 
turned just in season to see all the horses 
trotting out of the grange. They wheeled 
out of the wide door in a line headed down 
the hill, the last two carrying the bar to 
which they had been attached, like the pole 
of a carriage, between them. They were 
all " feeling their oats," and they thun- 
dered down the hill by us, like a cavalry 
charge, and behind them came half a dozen 
men simply splitting with laughter. 

Amelie had been perfectly right. The 
old grange was not solid, but they had not 
pulled the walls down on themselves, they 
had simply pulled the pole to which they 
were attached out of its bed. 

The Aspirant tried not to smile — an 
officer in command must not, I suppose, 
even if he is only twenty. He whistled 
gently, put up his hand to stop the men 
from running, and walked quietly into the 
road, still whistling. Five of the horses, 
tossing their heads, were thundering on 
towards the canal. The span, dragging 

[ 227 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

the long pole, swerved on the turn, and 
swung the pole, which was so long that it 
caught on the bank. I expected to see 
them tangle themselves all up, what with 
the pole and the halters. Not a bit of it. 
They stopped, panting, and still trying to 
toss their heads, and the Aspirant quietly 
picked up a halter, and passed the horses 
over to the men, saying, in a most non- 
chalant manner: " Fasten that pole more 
securely. Some of you go quietly down the 
hill. You '11 meet them coming back," and 
he returned to the garden, and resumed 
the conversation just where it had been 
interrupted. 

It had been a lively picture to me, but 
to the soldiers, I suppose, it had only been 
an every day's occurrence. 

My only fear had been that there might 
be children or a wagon on the winding 
road. Luckily the way was clear. 

An hour later, the men returned, lead- 
ing the horses. They had galloped down 
to the river, and returned by way of Voi- 
sins, where they had stopped right in front 
of the house where the Captain was quar- 
tered, and the Captain had been in the 
garden and seen them. 

This time the Aspirant had to laugh. 
He slapped one of the horses caressingly 
on the nose as he said: "You devils 1 
[ 228 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Could n't you go on a lark without telling 
the Captain about it, and getting us all 
into trouble? " 

To make this all the funnier, that very 
night three horses stabled in a rickety 
barn at Voisins, kicked their door down, 
and pranced and neighed under the Cap- 
tain's bedroom window. 

The Captain is a nice chap, but he is not 
in his first youth, and he is tired, and, well 
— he is a bit nervous. He said little, but 
that was to the point. It was only : " You 
boys will see that these things don't hap- 
pen, or you will sleep in the straw behind 
your horses." 

This is the first time that I have seen 
anything of the military organization, and 
I am filled with admiration for it. I don't 
know how it works behind the trenches, 
but here, in the cantonnement, I could set 
my clocks by the soup wagon — a neat 
little cart, drawn by two sturdy little 
horses, which takes the hill at a fine gallop, 
and passes my gate at exactly twenty-five 
minutes past eleven, and twenty-five min- 
utes past five every day. The men wait, 
with their gamelles y at the top of the hill. 
The soup looks good and smells delicious. 
Amelie says that it tastes good. She has 
five soldiers in her house, and she and 
Pere often eat with them, so she knows. 

[ 229 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

From all this you can guess what my 
life is like, and probably will be like until 
the impatiently awaited spring offensive. 
But what you will find it hard to imagine 
is the spirit and gaiety of these men. It 
is hard to believe that they have been sup- 
porting the monotony of trench life for so 
long, and living under bombardment, — 
and cavalry at that, trained and hoping for 
another kind of warfare. There is no sign 
of it on them. 



[ 230 ] 



XXX 

December 17, 1916 

Well, we did not keep our first division 
of dragoons as long as we expected. They 
had passed part of their three weeks out 
of the trenches at Nanteuil, and on the 
journey, so it seemed to us as though they 
were hardly settled down when the order 
came for them to return. They were here 
only a little over a week. 

I had hardly got accustomed to seeing 
the Aspirant about the house, either writ- 
ing, with the cat on his knees, or reading, 
with Dick sitting beside him, begging to 
have his head patted, when one evening he 
came in, and said quietly: "Well, ma- 
dame, we are leaving you in a day or two. 
The order for the releve has come, but 
the day and hour are not yet fixed." 

But during the week he was here I got 
accustomed to seeing him sit before the 
fire every evening after dinner for a little 
chat before turning in. He was more 
ready to talk politics than war, and full of 
curiosity about " your Mr. Wilson," as he 
called him. Now and then he talked mili- 
tary matters, but it was technique, and the 

[ 231 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

strategy of war, not the events. He is 
an enthusiastic soldier, and to him, of 
course, the cavalry is still " la plus belle 
arme de France" He loved to explain 
the use of cavalry in modern warfare, of 
what it was yet to do in the offensive, 
armed as it is today with the same weap- 
ons as the infantry, carrying carbines, 
having its hand-grenade divisions, its mz- 
trailleuses, ready to go into action as cav- 
alry, arriving like a flash au galop, over 
ground where the infantry must move 
slowly, and with difficulty, and ready at 
any time to dismount and fight on foot, to 
finish a pursuit begun as cavalry. It all 
sounded very logical as he described it. 

He had been under bombardment, been 
on dangerous scouting expeditions, but 
never yet in a charge, which is, of course, 
his ambitious dream. There was an ex- 
pression of real regret in his voice when 
he said one evening: " Helas! I have not 
yet had the smallest real opportunity to 
distinguish myself." 

I reminded him that he was still very 
young. 

He looked at me quite indignantly as 
he replied: " Madame forgets that there 
are Aspirants no older than I whose names 
are already inscribed on the roll of 
honor." 

[ 232 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

You see an elderly lady, unused to a sol- 
dier's point of view, may be very sympa- 
thetic, and yet blunder as a comforter. 

The releve passed off quietly. It was 
all in the routine of the soldiers' lives. 
They did not even know that it was pic- 
turesque. It was late last Friday night 
that an orderly brought the news that the 
order had come to move on the morning 
of the eleventh — three days later, — and 
it was not until the night of the fifteenth 
that we were again settled down to quiet. 

The squad we had here moved in two 
divisions. Early Monday morning — the 
eleventh — the horses were being saddled, 
and at ten o'clock they began to move. 
One half of them were in full equipment. 
The other half acted as an escort as far 
as Meaux, from which place they led back 
the riderless horses. 

The officers explained it all to me. The 
division starting that day for the trenches 
dismounted at Meaux, and took a train for 
the station nearest to the Foret de Laigue. 
There they had their hot soup and waited 
for night, to march into the trenches under 
cover of the darkness. They told me that 
it was not a long march, but it was a hard 
one, as it was up hill, over wet and clayey 
ground, where it was difficult not to slip 
back as fast as they advanced. 

[ 233 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

On arriving at the trenches they would 
find the men they were to relieve ready to 
march out, to slip and slide down the hill 
to the railway, where they would have their 
morning coffee, and await the train for 
Meaux, where they were due at noon next 
day — barring delays. 

So, on the afternoon of the twelfth, the 
men who had acted as escort the day be- 
fore led the horses to Meaux, and just 
before four o'clock the whole body arrived 
on the hill. 

This time I saw men right out of the 
trenches. They were a sorry sight, in 
spite of their high spirits. The clayey 
yellow mud of three weeks' exposure in 
the trenches was plastered on them so thick 
that I wondered how they managed to 
mount their horses. I never saw a dirtier 
crowd. Their faces even looked stiff. 

They simply tumbled off their horses, 
left the escort to stable them, and made a 
dash for the bath-house, which is at the 
foot of the hill, at Joncheroy. If they 
can't get bathed, disinfected, and changed 
before dark, they have to sleep their first 
night in the straw with the horses, as they 
are unfit, in more ways than I like to tell 
you, to go into anyone's house until that 
is done, and they are not allowed. 

These new arrivals had twenty-four 

[ 234 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

hours' rest, and then, on Thursday, they 
acted as escort to the second division, and 
with that division went the Aspirant, and 
the men they relieved arrived Friday after- 
noon, and now we are settled down for 
three weeks. 

Before the Aspirant left he introduced 
into the house the senior lieutenant, whom 
he had been replacing in the command on 
my hill, a man a little over thirty — a busi- 
ness man in private life and altogether 
charming, very cultivated, a book-lover 
and an art connoisseur. He is a nephew 
of Lepine, so many years prefet de police 
at Paris, and a cousin of Senator Reynault, 
who was killed in his aeroplane at Toule, 
famous not only as a brave patriot, but as 
a volunteer for three reasons exempt from 
active service — a senator, a doctor, and 
past the age. 

I begin to believe, on the testimony of 
my personal experiences, that all the offi- 
cers in the cavalry are perfect gentlemen. 
The lieutenant settled into his place at 
once. He puts the coal on the fire at night. 
He plays with the animals. He locks up, 
and is as quiet as a mouse and as busy as 
a bee. 

This is all my news, except that I am 
hoping to go to Paris for Christmas, and 
to go by the way of Voulangis. It is all 

[ 235 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

very uncertain. My permission has not 
come yet. 

It is over a year since we were shut in. 
My friends in Paris call me their per- 
missionaire, when I go to town. In the 
few shops where I am known everyone 
laughs when I make my rare appearances 
and greets me with: " Ah, so they 've let 
you out again! " as if it were a huge joke, 
and I assure you that it does seem like 
that to me. 

The soldiers in the trenches get eight 
days' permission every four months. I 
don't seem to get much more, — if as 
much. 



[ 236 ] 



XXXI 

January io, 191 7 

I WENT to Paris, as I told you I hoped 
to do. Nothing new there. In spite of 
the fact that, in many ways, they are be- 
ginning to feel the war, and there is al- 
together too much talk about things no 
one can really know anything about, I was 
still amazed at the gaiety. In a way it is 
just now largely due to the great number 
of men en permission. The streets, the 
restaurants, the tea-rooms are full of them, 
and so, they tell me, are the theatres. 

Do you know what struck me most for- 
cibly? You '11 never guess. It was that 
men in long trousers look perfectly absurd. 
I am so used to seeing the culotte and 
gaiters that the best-looking pantaloons 
I saw on the boulevards looked ugly and 
ridiculous. 

I left the officer billeted in my house 
to take care of it. The last I saw of him 
he was sitting at the desk in the salon, 
his pipe in his mouth, looking comfortable 
and cosy, and as if settled for life. I only 
stayed a few days, and came home, on 
New Year's Eve, to find that he had left 

[ 237 1 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

the night before, having been suddenly 
transferred to the staff of the commander 
of the first army, as officier de la liaison, 
and I had in his place a young sous-officier 
of twenty-two, who proves to be a cousin 
of the famous French spy, Captain Luxe, 
who made that sensational escape, in 1910, 
from a supposed-to-be-impregnable Ger- 
man military prison. I am sure you re- 
member the incident, as the American 
papers devoted columns to his unprece- 
dented feat. The hero of that sensational 
episode is still in the army. I wonder what 
the Germans will do with him if they 
catch him again? They are hardly likely 
to get him alive a second time. 

I wonder if the German books on mili- 
tary tactics use that escape as a model 
in their military schools? Do you know 
that in every French military school the 
reconnaisance which Count Zeppelin made 
in Alsace, in the days of 1870, when he 
was a cavalry officer, is given as a model 
reconnaissance both for strategy and pluck? 
I did not, until I was told. Oddly enough, 
not all that Zeppelin has done since to 
offend French ideas of decency in war can 
dull the admiration felt by every cavalry 
officer for his clever feat in 1870. 

Last Thursday, — that was the 4th, — 
we had our second releve. 

[ 238 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

The night before they left some of the 
officers came to say au revoir, and to tell 
me that the Aspirant, who had been with 
me in December, would be quartered on 
me again- — if I wanted him. Of course 
I did. 

Then the senior lieutenant told me that 
the regiment had suffered somewhat from 
a serious bombardment the days after 
Christmas, that the Aspirant had not only 
shown wonderful courage, but had had 
a narrow escape, and had been cite a 
Vordre du jour, and was to have his first 
decoration. 

We all felt as proud of him as if he be- 
longed to us. I was told that he had been 
sent into the first-line trenches — only two 
hundred yards from the German front — 
during the bombardment, " to encourage 
and comfort his men " (I quote) , and that 
a bomb had exploded over the trench and 
knocked a hole in his steel helmet. 

I don't know which impressed me most 
— the idea of a lad of twenty having so 
established the faith in his courage 
amongst his superior officers as to be safe 
as a comfort and encouragement for the 
men, or the fact that, if the army had had 
those steel casques at the beginning of the 
war, many lives would have been saved. 

The Aspirant came in with the second 

[ 239 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

detachment the night before last — the 
eighth. The regiment was in and all quar- 
tered before he appeared. 

We had begun to fear something had 
happened to him, when he turned up, 
freshly shaved and clean, but with a tat- 
tered overcoat on his arm, and a battered 
helmet in his hand. 

Amelie greeted him with: "Well, 
young man, we thought you were lost! " 

He laughed, as he explained that he had 
been to make a toilet, see the regimental 
tailor, and order a new topcoat. 

" I would not, for anything in the world, 
have had madame see me in the state I 
was in an hour ago. She has to see my 
rags, but I spared her the dirt," and he 
held up the coat to show its rudely sewed- 
up rents, and turned over his helmet to 
show the hole in the top. 

" And here is what hit me," and he took 
out of his pocket a rough piece of a shell, 
and held it up, as if it were very precious. 
Indeed, he had it wrapped in a clean en- 
velope, all ready to take up to Paris and 
show his mother, as he is to have his leave 
of a week while he is here. 

I felt like saying " Don't," but I did n't. 
I suppose it is hard for an ambitious sol- 
dier of twenty to realize that the mother 
of an only son, and that son such a boy as 
[ 240 ] 




Aspirant B — 

At a post d'ecoute in the trenches at Tracy-le-Val, the 
nearest trench to Paris 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

this, must have some feeling besides pride 
in her heart as she looks at him. 

So now we are settled again, and used 
to the trotting of horses, the banging of 
grenades and splitting of mitrailleuses. 
From the window as I write — I am up 
in the attic, which Amelie calls the " ate- 
lier" because it is in the top of the house 
and has a tiny north light in the roof — 
that being the only place where I am sure 
of being undisturbed — I can see horses 
being trained in the wide field on the side 
of the hill between here and Quincy. They 
are manoeuvring with all sorts of noises 
about them — even racing in a circle while 
grenades and guns are fired. 

In spite of all that, there came near 
being a lovely accident right in front of 
the gate half an hour ago. 

The threshing-machine is at work in 
front of the old grange on the other side 
of the road, just above my house. The 
men had come back from breakfast, and 
were starting the machine up just as two 
mounted soldiers, each leading two horses, 
rode out of the grange at Amelie's, and 
started down the hill at a trot. The very 
moment the horses were turning out to 
pass the machine, — and the space was 
barely sufficient between the machine and 
the bank — a heedless man blew three 

[ 241 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

awful blasts on his steam whistle to call 
his aids. The cavalry horses were used 
to guns, and the shrill mouth whistles of 
the officers, but that did not make them 
immune to a steam siren, and in a moment 
there was the most dangerous mix-up I 
ever saw. I expected to see both riders 
killed, and I don't know now why they 
were not, but neither man was thrown, even 
in spite of having three frightened horses 
to master. 

It was a stupid thing for the man on the 
machine to do. He would have only had 
to wait one minute and the horses would 
have been by with a clear road before 
them if they shied. But he "did n't think." 
The odd thing was that the soldiers did 
not say an ugly word. I suppose they are 
used to worse. 

You have been reproaching me for over 
a year that I did not write enough about 
the war. I do hope that all this movement 
about me interests you. It is not war by 
any means, but the nearest relation to it 
that I have seen in that time. It is its 
movements, its noise, its clothes. It is 
gay and brave, and these men are no 
" chocolate soldiers." 



[ 242 ] 



XXXII 

January 30, 191 7 

My, but it is cold here ! Wednesday 
the 24th it was 13 below zero, and this 
morning at ten o'clock it was 6° below. 
Of course this is in Centigrade and not 
Fahrenheit, but it is a cold from which 
I suffer more — it is so damp — than I 
ever did from the dry, sunny, below zero 
as you know it in the States. Not since 
1899 have I seen such cold as this in 
France. I have seen many a winter here 
when the ground has hardly frozen at all. 
This year it began to freeze a fortnight 
ago. It began to snow on the 17th, a fine 
dry snow, and as the ground was frozen 
it promises to stay on. It has so far, in 
spite of the fact that once or twice since 
it fell the sun has shone. It looks very 
pretty, quite unnatural, very reminiscent of 
New England. 

It makes life hard for us as well as the 
soldiers, but they laugh and say, " We 
have seen worse." They prefer it to rain 
and mud. But it makes roading hard; 
everything is so slippery, and if you ever 
happened to see a French horse or a 

[ 243 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

French person u walking on ice " I don't 
need to say more. 

Well, the unexpected has happened — 
the cavalry has moved on. They expected 
— as much as a soldier ever expects any- 
thing — to have divided their time until 
March between our hill and the trenches 
in the Foret de Laigue. But on the twenty- 
second orders began to rush in from head- 
quarters, announcing a change of plan; a 
move was ordered and counter-ordered 
every few hours for three days, until 
Thursday afternoon, the twenty-fifth, the 
final order came — the whole division to 
be ready to mount at seven-thirty the next 
morning, orders for the direction to come 
during the night. 

You never saw such a rushing about to 
collect clothes and get them dried. You 
see it has been very hard to get washing 
done. The Morin, where the wash-houses 
are, is frozen, and even when things are 
washed, they won't dry in this air, and 
there is no coal to heat the drying-houses. 

However, it was done after a fashion. 
Everyone who had wood kept a fire up all 
night. 

On Wednesday afternoon I had a little 
tea-party for some of the sons-officiers — 
mere boys — a simple goodbye spread of 
bread and butter and dry cookies, — 

[ 244 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

nothing else to be had. I could not even 
make cake, as we have had no fine sugar 
for months. However, the tea was extra 
good — sent me from California for 
Christmas — and I set the table with all 
my prettiest things, and the boys seemed 
to enjoy themselves. 

They told me before leaving that never 
since they were at the front had they been 
anywhere so well received or so comfort- 
able as they have been here, and that it 
would be a long time before they " forgot 
Huiry." Well, we on our side can say 
that we never dreamed that a conscript 
army could have a whole regiment of such 
fine men. So you see we are all very much 
pleased with each other, and if the 23d 
Dragoons are not going to forget us, we 
are as little likely to forget them. 

Thursday evening, before going to bed, 
the Aspirant and I sat at the kitchen table 
and made a lot of sandwiches, as they are 
carrying three days' provisions. They ex- 
pected a five hours' march on the first day, 
and a night under the tents, then another 
day's march, during which they would re- 
ceive their orders for their destination. 
When the sandwiches were done, and 
wrapped up ready for his orderly to put 
in the saddlebags, with his other provi- 
sions, he said: " Well, I am going to say 

[ 245 1 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

goodbye to you tonight, and thank you for 
all your kindness." 

" Not at all," I answered. " I shall be 
up in the morning to see you start." 

He protested. It was so cold, so early, 
etc. But my mind was made up. 

I assure you that it was cold, — i8° 
below, — but I got up when I heard the 
orderly arrive in the morning. I had been 
awake for hours, for at three o'clock the 
horses were being prepared. Every man 
had three to feed and saddle, and pack. 
Orderlies were running about doing the 
last packing for the officers, and carrying 
kits to the baggage-wagons. Amelie came 
at six. When I got downstairs I found the 
house warm and coffee ready. The Aspir- 
ant was taking his standing. It was more 
convenient than sitting in a chair. Indeed, 
I doubt if he could have sat. 

I had to laugh at the picture he made. 
I never regretted so much that I have not 
indulged in a camera. He was top-booted 
and spurred. He had on his new topcoat 
and his mended helmet — catch a young 
soldier who has been hit on the head by 
his first obus having a new and unscarred 
one. He was hung over with his outfit like 
a Santa Claus. I swore he could never 
get into the saddle, but he scorned my 
doubts. 

[ 2 4 6 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

To the leather belt about his waist, sup- 
ported by two straps over his shoulders, 
were attached his revolver, in its case with 
twenty rounds of cartridges; his field 
glasses; his map-case; his bidon — for his 
wine; square document case; his mask 
against asphyxiating gas; and, if you 
please, his kodak! Over one shoulder 
hung a flat, half-circular bag, with his 
toilet articles, over the other its mate, with 
a change, and a few necessary articles. 

He looked to me as if he would ride two 
hundred pounds heavy, and he has n't an 
ounce of extra flesh on him. 

I laughed even harder when I saw him 
mounted. In one side of the holster was 
his gamelle; in the other, ammunition. 
The saddlebags contained on one side 
twenty pounds of oats for the horse; on 
the other three days' provisions for him- 
self. I knew partly what was in that bag, 
and it was every bit as heavy as the horse's 
fodder, for there were sandwiches, sugar, 
coffee, chocolate, tinned meat, peas, corn, 
fruit, etc. Behind the saddle was rolled 
his blanket, inside his section of tent cover, 
— it takes six of them to make a real tent. 
They are arranged to button together. 

I was sitting in the bedroom window 
when he rode on to the terrace. I had to 
laugh as I looked down at him. 

[ 247 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

"And why does madame laugh?" he 
asked, trying to keep a sober face himself. 

" Well," I replied, " I am only wonder- 
ing if that is your battle array? " 

" Certainly," he answered. " Why does 
it surprise you? " 

I looked as serious as I could, as I ex- 
plained that I had supposed, naturally, that 
the cavalry went into action as lightly 
equipped as possible. 

He looked really indignant, as he 
snapped: " That would be quite unnatural. 
What do you suppose that Peppino and 
I are going to do after a battle? Wait 
for the commissary department to find us? 
No, madame, after a battle it will not be 
of my mother nor home, nor even of you, 
that we will be thinking. We shall think 
of something to eat and drink." Then he 
added, with a laugh, "Alas! We shan't 
have all these nice things you have given 
us. They will have been eaten by to- 
morrow." 

I apologized, and said I 'd know better 
another time, and he patted his horse, as 
he backed away, and said to him : " Salute 
the lady, Peppino, and tell her prettily that 
you had the honor of carrying Teddy 
Roosevelt the day he went to the review." 
And the horse pawed and bowed and 
neighed, and his rider wheeled him care- 

1 248 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

fully as he saluted and said: " Au revoir, 
I shall write, and, after the war, I shall 
give myself the pleasure of seeing you," 
and he rode carefully out of the gate — 
a very delicate operation, as only half of 
it was open. Laden as the horse was, he 
just made it, and away he galloped down 
the hill to Voisins, where the cavalry was 
assembling. 

I stayed in the window a few minutes to 
wave a goodbye to the men as they led 
each their three horses down the hill. 
Then I put on my heaviest coat, a polo cap, 
all my furs and mittens, thrust my felt 
shoes into my sabots, and with one hand 
in my muff, I took the big French flag in 
the other and went through the snow down 
to the hedge to watch the regiment pass, 
on the road to Esbly. 

Even before I got out of the house the 
news came that the 1 18th Regiment of in- 
fantry, the boys who retook Vaux in the 
great battle at Verdun, had been marching 
in from Meaux, and were camped, waiting 
to take up the billets the 23 d Dragoons 
were vacating. 

I stood in the snow for nearly half an 
hour, holding up the heavy flag, which 
flapped bravely in the icy wind, and watch- 
ing the long grey line moving slowly along 
the road below. I could see half a mile 

[ 249 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

of the line — grey, steel-helmeted men, 
packed horses, grey wagons — winding 
down the hill in the winter landscape, so 
different from the France I had always 
known. Hardly a sound came back — no 
music, no colors — the long, grey column 
moved in a silent, almost colorless world. 
I shifted the heavy flag from one hand to 
the other as my fingers got stiff, but, alas ! 
I could not shift my feet. Long before the 
line had passed I was forced to fasten the 
flag to a post in the hedge and leave it 
to float by itself, and limp into the house. 
As a volunteer color-bearer I was a fail- 
ure. I had to let Amelie take off my shoes 
and rub my feet, and I had hard work not 
to cry while she was doing it. I was hu- 
miliated, especially as I remembered that 
the boys had a five hours' march as their 
first etape, and a bivouac at the end of it. 

I had intended to go out later on the 
route Madame to watch the cavalry com- 
ing down from the hills on the other side 
of the Morin, but I could not face the cold. 
There is nothing heroic about me. So I 
contented myself with helping Amelie set 
the house in order. 

Needless to tell you that no one knows 
what this unexpected big movement of 
troops means. 

It is inevitable that we should all im- 
[ 250 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

agine that it concerns the coming spring 
offensive. At any rate, the cavalry is being 
put back into its saddles, and the crack 
regiments are coming out of Verdun — the 
famous corps which has won immortal 
fame there, and written the name of Ver- 
dun in letters of flame in the list of the 
world's great battles, and enshrined French 
soldiers in the love of all who can be 
stirred by courage in a noble cause, or 
know what it means to have the heart swell 
at the thought of the " sacred love of 
home and country." 

Although I have sworn — and more 
than once — that I will not talk politics 
with you again, or discuss any subject 
which can be considered as its most dis- 
tant blood relation, yet every time you re- 
iterate " Are n't the French wonderfully 
changed ? Are n't you more and more sur- 
prised at them? " it goes against the grain. 

Does it never occur to you that France 
held her head up wonderfully after the 
terrible humiliation of 1870? Does it 
never occur to you what it meant to a great 
nation, so long a centre of civilization, and 
a great race, so long a leader in thought, 
to have found herself without a friend, 
and to have had to face such a defeat, — 
a defeat followed by a shocking treaty 
which kept that disaster forever before 

[ 251 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

her? Do you never think of the hidden 
shame, the cankering mortification of the 
consciousness of that nation across the 
frontier, which had battened on its victory, 
and was so strong in brute force, that, 
however brave a face one might put on, 
there was behind that smiling front always 
a hidden fear of Germany — an eternal 
foe, ever gaining in numbers and eternally 
shaking her mailed fist. 

No nation so humiliated ever rose out 
of her humiliation as France did, but the 
hidden memory, the daily consciousness of 
it, set its outward mark on the race. It 
bred that sort of bravado which was eter- 
nally accusing itself, in the consciousness 
that it had taken a thrashing it could never 
hope to avenge. Count up the past dares 
that France has had to take from Ger- 
many, so strong in mere numbers and 
physical strength that to attempt to fight 
her alone, as she did in 1870, meant simply 
to court annihilation, and fruitlessly. That 
does not mean that France was really 
afraid, but only that she was too wise to 
dare attempt to prove that she was not 
afraid. So many things in the French 
that the world has not understood were 
the result of the cankering wound of 1870. 
This war has healed that wound. Ger- 
many is not invincible, and the chivalrous, 
[ 252 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

loving aid that rallied to help France is 
none the less comforting simply because 
since 19 14 all nations have learned that 
the trend of Germany's ambition was a 
menace to them as well as to France. 



[ 253 ] 



XXXIII 

February 2, 191 7 

I had hardly sent my last letter to the 
post when news came that the 23d Dra- 
goons had arrived safely at their new can- 
tonnement, but here is the letter, which 
will tell the story. Sorry that you insist 
on having these things in English — they 
are so very much prettier in French. 

With the Army, January 29 
Dear Madame, 

Bravo for the pretty idea you had in 
flinging to the winter breezes the tri-col- 
ored flag in honor of our departure. All 
the soldiers marching out of Voisins saw 
the colors and were deeply touched. Let 
me bear witness to their gratitude. 

How I regret La Creste. One never 
knows how happy he is until afterward. 
I am far from comfortably installed here. 
I am lodged in an old deserted chateau. 
There are no fires, and we are literally 
refrigerated. However, we shall not stay 
long, as I am returning to the trenches in 
a day or two. It will hardly be warm 

[ 254 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

there, but I shall have less time to remem- 
ber how much more than comfortable I 
was at Huiry. 

We made a fairly decent trip to this 
place, but I assure you that, in spite of my 
" extreme youth," I was near to being 
frozen en route. We were so cold that 
finally the whole regiment had to dismount 
and proceed on foot in the hope of warm- 
ing up a bit. We were all, in the end, 
sad, cross, and grumbly. You had spoiled 
us all at Huiry and Voisins. For my part 
I longed to curse someone for having or- 
dered such a change of base as this, in 
such weather. Was n't I well enough off 
where I was, toasting myself before your 
nice fire, and drinking my tea comfortably 
every afternoon? 

However, we are working tremendously 
for the coming offensive. And I hope it 
will be the final one, for the Germans are 
beginning to show signs of fatigue. News 
comes to us from the interior, from a re- 
liable source, which indicates that the situ- 
ation on the other side of the Rhine is 
anything but calm. More than ever now 
must we hang on, for the victory is almost 
within our clutch. 

Accept, madame, the assurance of my 
most respectful homage, 

A B . 

[ 255 J 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

So you see, we were all too previous in 
expecting the offensive. The cavalry is not 
yet really mounted for action. But we 
hope all the same. 

The 1 1 8th is slowly settling down, but 
I '11 tell you about that later. 



I 256 ] 



XXXIV 

February 10, 191 7 

Well, the 11 8th has settled down to 
what looks like a long cantonnement. It 
is surely the liveliest as well as the biggest 
we ever had here, and every little town 
and village is crowded between here and 
Coulommier. Not only are there five thou- 
sand infantry billeted along the hills and 
in the valleys, but there are big divisions 
of artillery also. The little square in front 
•of our railway station at Couilly is full of 
grey cannon and ammunition wagons, and 
there are military kitchens and all sorts of 
commissary wagons along all the road- 
sides between here and Crecy-en-Brie, 
which is the distributing headquarters for 
all sorts of material. 

As the weather has been intolerably 
cold, though it is dry and often sunny, the 
soldiers are billeted in big groups of fifty 
or sixty in a room or grange, where they 
sleep in straw, rolled in their blankets, 
packed like sardines to keep warm. 

They came in nearly frozen, but they 
thawed out quickly, and now they don't 
mind the weather at all. 

[ 257 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Hardly had they got thawed out when 
an epidemic of mumps broke out. They 
made quick work of evacuating those who 
had it, and stop its spreading, to the re- 
gret, I am afraid, of a good many of the 
boys. One of them said to me the day 
after the mumpy ones were taken over to 
Meaux: "Lucky fellows. I wish / had 
the mumps. After Verdun it must be jolly 
to be in the hospital with nothing more 
dangerous than mumps, and a nice, pretty 
girl, in a white cap, to pet you. I can't 
think of a handsomer way to spend a repos 
than that." 

When I tell you that these soldiers say, 
" Men who have not been at Verdun have 
not seen the war yet," and then add that 
the life of the 118th here looks like a long 
picnic, and that they make play of their 
work, play of their grenade practice, which 
they vary with football, play of their 
twenty miles hikes, I give you leave to 
laugh at my way of seeing the war, and 
I '11 even laugh with you. 

That reminds me that I never see a 
thousand or so of these boys on the big 
plain playing what they call football that 
I don't wish some American chaps were 
here to teach them the game. All they 
do here is to throw off their coats and 
kick the ball as far, and as high, as pos- 
[ 258 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

sible, and run like racers after it, while 
the crowd, massed on the edge of the field, 
yells like mad. The yelling they do very 
well indeed, and they kick well, and run 
well. But, if they only knew the game — 
active, and agile, and light as they are — 
they would enjoy it, and play it well. 

I had one of the nicest thrills I have 
had for many a day soon after the 118th 
arrived. 

It was a sunny afternoon. I was walk- 
ing in the road, when, just at the turn 
above my house, two officers rode round 
the corner, saluted me, and asked if the 
road led to Quincy. I told them the road 
to the right at the foot of the hill, through 
Voisins, would take them to Quincy. They 
thanked me, wheeled their horses across 
the road and stood there. I waited to 
see what was going to happen — small 
events are interesting here. After a bit 
one of them said that perhaps I would 
be wise to step out of the road, which was 
narrow, as the regiment was coming. 

I asked, of course, " What regiment? " 
and "What are they coming for?" and 
he answered " The 118th," and that it 
was simply " taking a walk." 

So I sauntered back to my garden, and 
down to the corner by the hedge, where 
I was high above the road, and could see 

[ 259 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

in both directions. I had hardly got there 
when the head of the line came round the 
corner. In columns of four, knapsacks on 
their backs, guns on their shoulders, swing- 
ing at an easy gait, all looking so brown, 
so hardy, so clear-eyed, the men from Ver- 
dun marched by. 

I had thought it cold in spite of the 
sun, and was well wrapped up, with my 
hands thrust into my big muff, but these 
men had beads of perspiration standing 
on their bronzed faces under their steel 
helmets. 

Before the head of the line reached the 
turn into Voisins, a long shrill whistle 
sounded. The line stopped. Someone 
said: "At last! My, but this has been 
a hot march," and in a second every man 
had slipped off his knapsack and had a 
cigarette in his mouth. 

Almost all of them dropped to the 
ground, or lay down against the bank. 
A few enterprising ones climbed the bank, 
to the field in front of my lawn, to get 
a glimpse of the view, and they all said 
what everyone says: "I say, this is the 
best point to see it." 

I wondered what they would say to it 
if they could see it in summer and autumn 
if they found it fine with its winter haze. 

But that is not what gave me my thrill. 
[ 260 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

The rest was a short one. Two sharp 
whistles sounded down the hill. Instantly 
everyone slipped on his sac, shouldered his 
gun, and at that minute, down at the cor- 
ner, the military band struck up " Chant 
du Depart." Every hair on my head stood 
up. It is the first time I have heard a 
band since the war broke out, and as 
the regiment swung down the hill to the 
blare of brass — well, funnily enough, it 
seemed less like war than ever. Habit 
is a deadly thing. I have heard that band 
— a wonderful one, as such a regiment 
deserves, — many times since, but it never 
makes my heart thump as it did when, 
so unexpectedly, it cut the air that sunny 
afternoon. 

I had so often seen those long lines 
marching in silence, as the English and 
the French did to the Battle of the Marne, 
as all our previous regiments have come 
and gone on the hillside, and never seen 
a band or heard military music that I had 
ceased to associate music with the soldiers, 
although I knew the bands played in the 
battles and the bugle calls were a part 
of it. 

We have had all sorts of military shows, 
which change the atmosphere in which the 
quiet about us had been for months and 
months only stirred by the far-off artillery. 

[ 261 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

One day, we had a review on the broad 
plain which lies along the watershed be- 
tween the Marne and the Grande Morin, 
overlooking the heights on the far side of 
both valleys, with the Grande Route on 
one side, and the walls to the wooded park 
of the handsome Chateau de Quincy on 
the other. It was an imposing sight, with 
thousands of steel-helmeted figures sac au 
dos et bayonnette au canon, marching and 
counter-marching in the cold sunshine, look- 
ing in the distance more like troops of 
Louis XIII than an evolution from the 
French conscript of the ante-bellum days 
of the pantalon rouge. 

Two days later we had the most mag- 
nificent prise 3! armes on the same plain 
that I have ever seen, much more stir- 
ring — though less tear-moving — than the 
same ceremony in the courtyard of the 
Invalides at Paris, where most foreigners 
see it. At the Invalides one sees the 
mutiles and the ill. Here one only saw 
the glory. In Paris, the galleries about the 
court, inside the walls of the Soldiers 7 
Home, are packed with spectators. Here 
there were almost none. But here the 
heroes received their decorations in the 
presence of the comrades among whom 
they had been won, in the terrible battles 
of Verdun. It was a long line of officers, 
[ 262 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

and men from the ranks, who stood so 
steadily before the commander and his 
staff, inside the hollow square, about the 
regimental colors, to have their medals 
and crosses fastened on their faded coats, 
receive their accolade, and the bravos of 
their companions as their citations were 
read. There were seven who received the 
Legion d' Honneur. 

It was a brave-looking ceremony, and 
it was a lovely day — even the sun shone 
on them. 

There was one amusing episode. These 
celebrations are always a surprise to the 
greater part of the community, and, in a 
little place like this, it is only by accident 
that anyone sees the ceremony. The chil- 
dren are always at school, and the rest of 
the world is at work, so, unless the music 
attracts someone, there are few spectators. 
On the day of the prise d'armes three old 
peasants happened to be in a field on the 
other side of the route nationale, which 
skirts the big plain on the plateau. They 
heard the music, dropped their work and 
ran across the road to gape. They were 
all men on towards eighty — too old to 
have ever done their military service. 
Evidently no one had ever told them that 
all Frenchmen were expected to uncover 
when the flag went by. Poor things, they 

[ 263 1 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

should have known ! But they did n't, and 
you should have seen a colonel ride down 
on them. I thought he was going to cut 
the woollen caps off their heads with his 
sabre, at the risk of decapitating them. 
But I loved what he said to them. 

" Don't you know enough to uncover 
before the flag for which your fellow citi- 
zens are dying every day? " 

Is n't that nice? I loved the democratic 
" fellow citizens " — so pat and oratori- 
cally French. 

I flung the Stars and Stripes to the 
French breezes on the 7th in honor of the 
rupture. It was the first time the flag has 
been unfurled since Captain Simpson or- 
dered the corporal to take it down two 
years ago the third of last September. I 
had a queer sensation as I saw it flying 
over the gate again, and thought of all 
that had happened since the little corporal 
of the King's Own Yorks took it down, 
— and the Germans still only forty-two 
miles away. 



c 264 ] 



XXXV 

February 26, 191 7 

What do you suppose I have done 
since I last wrote to you? 

I have actually been to the theatre for 
the first time in four years. Would you 
ever have believed that I could keep out 
of the theatre such a long time as that? 
Still, I suppose going to the theatre — to 
a sort of variety show — seems to you, 
who probably continue to go once or twice 
a week, a tame experience. Well, you 
can go to the opera, which I can't do if 
I like, but you can't see the heroes of 
Verdun not only applauding a show, but 
giving it, and that is what I have been 
doing not only once but twice since I wrote 
you. 

I am sure that I have told you that our 
ambulance is in the salle de recreation of 
the commune, which is a small rectangular 
room with a stage across one end. It is 
the only thing approaching a theatre which 
the commune boasts. It is well lighted, 
with big windows in the sides, and a top- 
light over the stage. It is almost new, 
and the walls and pointed ceiling are ve- 

[ ^S ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

neered with some Canadian wood, which 
looks like bird's-eye maple, but is n't. 

It is in that hall that the matinees, which 
are given every other Sunday afternoon, 
take place. They are directed by a lieu- 
tenant-colonel, who goes into it with great 
enthusiasm, and really gets up a first-class 
programme. 

The boys do all the hard work, and the 
personnel of the ambulance aids and abets 
with great good humor, though it is very 
upsetting. But then it is for the army — 
and what the army wants these days, it 
must have. 

Luckily the men in our ambulance just 
now are either convalescent, or, at any 
rate, able to sit up in bed and bear excite- 
ment. So the beds of the few who cannot 
be dressed are pushed close to the stage, 
and around their cots are the chairs and 
benches of their convalescent comrades. 
The rest of the beds are taken out. The 
big military band is packed into one corner 
of the room. Chairs are put in for the 
officers of the staff and their few invited 
guests — there are rarely more than half 
a dozen civilians. Behind the reserved 
seats are a few benches for the captains 
and lieutenants and the rest of the space 
is given up to the poilus, who are allowed 
to rush when the doors are opened. 
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can't see the heroes of Verdun not only applauding a show, but 
giving it." 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Of course the room is much too small, 
but it is the best we have. The wide doors 
are left open. So are the wide windows, 
and the boys are even allowed to perch 
on the wall opposite the entrance, from 
which place they can see the stage. 

The entire programme is given by the 
poilus; only one performer had a stripe 
on his sleeve, though many of them wore 
a decoration. What seems to me the pret- 
tiest of all is that all the officers go, and 
applaud like mad, even the white-haired 
generals, who are not a bit backward in 
crying " Bis, bis! " like the rest. 

The officers are kind enough to invite 
me and the card on my chair is marked 
" Mistress Aldrich." Is n't that Shake- 
sperian? I sit among the officers, usually 
with a commandant on one side and a 
colonel on the other, with a General de 
Division, and a General de Brigade in 
front of me, and all sorts of gilt stripes 
about me, which I count with curiosity, 
now that I have learned what they mean, 
as I surreptitiously try to discover the 
marks that war has made on their faces — 
and don't find them. 

The truth is, the salle is fully as inter- 
esting to me as the performance, good as 
that is — with a handsome, delicate-look- 
ing young professor of music playing the 

[ 267 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

violin, an actor from the Palais Royale 
showing a diction altogether remarkable, 
two well-known gymnasts doing wonder- 
ful stunts on horizontal bars, a prize pupil 
from the Conservatory at Nantes acting, 
as only the French can, in a well-known 
little comedy, two clever, comic monolo- 
gists of the La Scala sort, and as good as 
I ever heard even there, and a regimental 
band which plays good music remarkably. 
There is even a Prix de Rome in the regi- 
ment, but he is en conge, so I 've not heard 
him yet. I wonder if you take it in? Do 
you realize that these are the soldiers in 
the ranks of the French defence? Con- 
sider what the life in the trenches means 
to them! 

They even have artists among the poilns 
to paint back drops and make properties. 
So you see it is one thing to go to the 
theatre and quite another to see the sol- 
diers from Verdun giving a performance 
before such a public — the men from the 
trenches going to the play in the highest 
of spirits and the greatest good humor. 

At the first experience of this sort I did 
long to have you there. It was such a 
scene as I could not have believed possible 
in these days and under these conditions 
if I had not actually taken part in it. 

As soon as the officers had filed in and 

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taken their seats the doors and windows 
were thrown open to admit " la vague" 
and we all stood up and faced about to 
see them come. It was a great sight. 

In the aisle down the centre of the hall 
— there is only one, — between the back 
row of reserved seats, stood Mile. Hen- 
riette, in her white uniform, white gloved, 
with the red cross holding her long white 
veil to the nurse's coiffe which covered 
her pretty brown hair. Her slight, tall, 
white figure was the only barrier to pre- 
vent " la vague " from sweeping right 
over the hall to the stage. As they came 
through the door it did not seem possible 
that anything could stop them — or even 
that they could stop themselves - — and I 
expected to see her crushed. Yet two feet 
from her, the mass stopped — the front 
line became rigid as steel and held back 
the rest, and, in a second, the wave had 
broken into two parts and flowed into the 
benches at left and right, and, in less time 
than it takes you to read this, they were 
packed on the benches, packed in the win- 
dows, and hung up on the walls. A queer 
murmur, half laugh and half applause, 
ran over the reserved seats, and the tall, 
thin commandant beside me said softly, 
" That is the way they came out of the 
trenches at Verdun." As I turned to sit 

[ 269 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

down I had impressed on my memory for- 
ever that sea of smiling, clean-shaven, 
keen-eyed, wave on wave of French faces, 
all so young and so gay — yet whose eyes 
had looked on things which will make a 
new France. 

I am sending you the programme of the 
second matinee — I lost that of the first. 

I do wish, for many reasons, that you 
could have heard the recitation by 
Brochard of Jean Bastia's " U Autre Cor- 
tege," in which the poet foresees the day 
" When Joffre shall return down the 
Champs Elysees " to the frenzied cries of 
the populace saluting its victorious army, 
and greeting with wild applause " Petain, 
who kept Verdun inviolated," " De Castel- 
nau, who three times in the fray saw a 
son fall at his side," " Gouraud, the Fear- 
less," " Marchand, who rushed on the 
Boches brandishing his cane," " Margin, 
who retook Douaumont," and " All those 
brave young officers, modest even in glory, 
whose deeds the world knows without 
knowing their names," and the soldier he- 
roes who held the frontier " like a wall 
of steel from Flanders to Alsace," — the 
heroes of Souchez, of Dixmude, of the 
Maison du Passeur, of Souain, of Notre 
Dame de Lorette, and of the great retreat. 
It made a long list and I could feel the 

[ 270 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

thrill running all over the room full of 
soldiers who, if they live, will be a part 
of that triumphal procession, of which no 
one talks yet except a poet. 

But when he had pictured that scene the 
tempo of the verse changed: the music 
began softly to play a Schumann Reverie 
to the lines beginning: " But this triumphal 
cortege is not enough. The return of the 
army demands another cortege," — the 
triumph of the Mutiles — the martyrs of 
the war who have given more than life 
to the defence of France — the most glori- 
ous heroes of the war. 

The picture the poet made of this 
" other cortege " moved the soldiers 
strangely. The music, which blended won- 
derfully with Brochard's beautiful voice, 
was hardly more than a breath, just 
audible, but always there, and added 
greatly to the effect of the recitation. 
There was a sigh in the silence which 
followed the last line — and an almost 
whispered " bravo," before the long 
shouts of applause broke out. 

It is the only number on any programme 
that has ever touched, even remotely, on 
war. It came as a surprise — it had not 
been announced. But the intense, rather 
painful, feeling which had swept over the 
audience was instantly removed by a comic 

[ 271 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

monologue, and I need not tell you that 
these monologues, — intended to amuse 
the men from the trenches and give them 
a hearty laugh, — are usually very La 
Scala — that is to say ■ — rosse. But I do 
love to hear the boys shout with glee over 
them. 

The scene in the narrow streets of 
Quincy after the show is very pictur- 
esque. The road mounts a little to Mou- 
lignon, and to see the blue-grey backs of 
the boys, quite filling the street between 
the grey walls of the houses, as they go 
slowly back to their cantonnements , makes 
a very pretty picture. 

It does seem a far cry from this to war, 
doesn't it? Yet isn't it lucky to know 
and to see that these boys can come out 
of such a battle as Verdun in this condi- 
tion? This spirit, you see, is the hope of 
the future. You know, when you train any 
kind of a dog to fight, you put him through 
all the hard paces and force him to them, 
without breaking his spirit. It seems to 
me that is just what is being done to the 
men at the front. 



[ 272 ] 



XXXVI 

March I, 191 7 

Well, I have been very busy for some 
time now receiving the regiment, and all 
on account of the flag. It had been going 
up in the " dawn's early light," and com- 
ing down " with the twilight's last gleam- 
ing " for some weeks when the regiment 
marched past the gate again. I must tell 
you the truth, — the first man who at- 
tempted to cry " Vivent les Etats-Unis " 
was hushed by a cry of " Attendez-patlence 
— pas encore" and the line swung by. 
That was all right. I could afford to 
smile, — and, at this stage of the game, 
to wait. You are always telling me what 
a " patient man " Wilson is. I don't deny 
it. Still, there are others. 

The first caller that the flag brought 
me was on the morning after the regiment 
marched by it. I was upstairs. Amelie 
called up that there was " tin petit soldat " 
at the door. They are all " les petits sol- 
dats " to her, even when they are six feet 
tail. She loves to see them coming into 
the garden. I heard her say to one of 
them the other day, when he " did not 

[ 273 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

wish to disturb madame, if she is busy," 
" Mais, entrez done. Les soldats ne 
genent jamais ma maitresse." 

I went downstairs and found a mere 
youngster, with a sergeant's stripe on his 
sleeve, blushing so hard that I wondered 
how he had got up the courage to come 
inside the gate. He stammered a moment. 
Then he pointed to the flag, and, clearing 
his throat, said: 

" You aire an Americainef " 

I owned it. 

"I haf seen the flag — I haf been so 
surprised — I haf had to come in." 

I opened the door wide, and said: 
" Do," and he did, and almost with tears 
in his eyes — he was very young, and 
blonde — he explained that he was a 
Canadian. 

" But," I said, " you are a French 
Canadian? " 

" Breton," he replied, " but I haf live 
in Canada since sixteen." Then he told me 
that his sister had gone to New Bruns- 
wick to teach French seven years ago, and 
that he had followed, that, when he was 
old enough, he had taken out his naturali- 
zation papers, and become a British sub- 
ject in order to take up government land; 
that he had a wheat farm in Northern 
Canada — one hundred and sixty acres, 

[ 274 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

all under cultivation; that he was twenty 
when the war broke out, and that he 
had enlisted at once; that he had been 
wounded on the Somme, and came out of 
the hospital just in season to go through 
the hard days at Verdun. 

As we talked, part of his accent wore 
away. Before the interview was over he 
was speaking English really fluently. 
You see he had been tongue-tied at his own 
temerity at first. When he was at ease — 
though he was very modest and scrupu- 
lously well-mannered — he talked well. 

The incident was interesting to me be- 
cause I had heard that the French Cana- 
dians had not been quick to volunteer, and 
I could not resist asking him how it hap- 
pened that he, a British subject, was in the 
French army. 

He reddened, stammered a bit, and 
finally said: "After all I am French at 
heart. Had England fought any other 
nation but France in a war in which France 
was not concerned it would have been dif- 
ferent, but since England and France are 
fighting together what difference can it 
make if my heart turned to the land where 
I was born? " 

Is n't the naturalization question deli- 
cate? 

I could not help asking myself how Eng- 

[ 275 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

land looked at the matter. I don't know. 
She has winked at a lot of things, and a 
great many more have happened of late 
about which no one has ever thought. 
There are any number of officers in the 
English army today, enrolled as English- 
men, who are American citizens, and who 
either had no idea of abandoning their 
country, or were in too much of a hurry 
to wait for formalities. I am afraid all 
this matter will take on another color after 
" this cruel war is over." 

This boy looked prosperous, and in no 
need of anything but kind words in Eng- 
lish. He did not even need cigarettes. 
But I saw him turn his eyes frequently 
towards the library, and it occurred to me 
that he might want something to read. I 
asked him if he did, and you should have 
seen his eyes shine, — and he wanted Eng- 
lish at that, and beamed all over his face 
at a heap of illustrated magazines. So I 
was able to send him away happy. 

The result was, early the next morning 
two more of them arrived — a tall six- 
footer, and a smaller chap. It was Sun- 
day morning, and they had real, smiling 
Sunday faces on. The smaller one ad- 
dressed me in very good English, and told 
me that the sergeant had said that there 
was an American lady who was willing to 

[ 276 ] 




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On the Edge of the War Zone 

lend the soldiers books. So I let them 
loose in the library, and they bubbled, one 
in English, and the other in French, while 
they revelled in the books. 

Of course I am always curious about 
the civil lives of these lads, and it is the 
privilege of my age to put such questions 
to them. The one who spoke English told 
me that his home was in London, that he 
was the head clerk in the correspondence 
department of an importing house. I 
asked him how old he was, and he told 
me twenty-two; that he was in France 
doing his military service when the war 
broke out; that he had been very successful 
in England, and that his employer had 
opposed his returning to France, and 
begged him to take out naturalization 
papers. He said he could not make up his 
mind to jump his military service, and had 
promised his employer to return when his 
time was up, — then the war came. 

I asked him if he was going back when 
it was over. 

He looked at me a moment, shook his 
head and said, " I don't think so. I had 
never thought of such a thing as a war. 
No, I am too French. After this war, if 
I can get a little capital, I am going into 
business here. I am only one, but I am 
afraid France needs us all." 

[ 277 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

You see there again is that naturaliza- 
tion question. This war has set the world 
thinking, and it was high time. 

One funny thing about this conversation 
was that every few minutes he turned to 
his tall companion and explained to him in 
French what we were talking about, and I 
thought it so sweet. 

Finally I asked the tall boy — he was 
a corporal and had been watching his 
English-speaking chum with such admira- 
tion — what he did in civil life. 

He turned his big brown eyes on me, 
and replied: " I, madame? I never had 
any civil life." 

I looked puzzled, and he added: "I 
come of a military family. I am an or- 
phan, and I am an enfant de troupe." 

Now did you know that there were such 
things today as " Children of the Regi- 
ment"? I own I did not. Yet there he 
stood before me, a smiling twenty-year 
old corporal, who had been brought up by 
the regiment, been a soldier boy from his 
babyhood. 

In the meantime they had decided what 
they wanted for books. The English- 
speaking French lad wanted either Shake- 
speare or Milton, and as I laid the books 
on the table for him, he told his comrade 
who the two authors were, and promised 

[ 278 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

to explain it all to him, and there was n't 
a sign of show-off in it either. As for 
the Child of the Regiment, he wanted a 
Balzac, and when I showed him where 
they were, he picked out " Eugenie Gran- 
det," and they both went away happy. 

I don't need to tell you that when the 
news spread that there were books in the 
house on the hilltop that could be borrowed 
for the asking, I had a stream of visitors, 
and one of these visits was a very different 
matter. 

One afternoon I was sitting before the 
fire. It was getting towards dusk. There 
was a knock at the door. I opened it. 
There stood a handsome soldier, with a 
corporal's stripes on his sleeve. He sa- 
luted me with a smile, as he told me that 
his comrades had told him that there was 
an American lady here who did not seem 
to be bored if the soldiers called on her. 

" Alors," he added, " I have come to 
make you a visit." 

I asked him in. 

He accepted the invitation. He thrust 
his fatigue cap into his pocket, took off his 
topcoat, threw it on the back of a chair, 
which he drew up to the fire, beside mine, 
and at a gesture from me he sat down. 

" H'm," I thought. " This is a new 
proposition." 

[ 279 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

The other soldiers never sit down even 
when invited. They prefer to keep on 
their feet. 

Ever since I began to see so much of 
the army, I have asked myself more than 
once, "Where are the ' fits de famille'f 
They can't all be officers, or all in the 
heavy artillery, or all in the cavalry. But 
I had never seen one, to know him, in the 
infantry. This man was in every way a 
new experience, even among the noncom- 
missioned officers I had seen. He was 
more at his ease. He stayed nearly two 
hours. We talked politics, art, literature, 
even religion — he was a good Catholic — 
just as one talks at a tea-party when one 
finds a man who is cultivated, and can 
talk, and he was evidently cultivated, and 
he talked awfully well. 

He examined the library, borrowed a 
volume of Flaubert, and finally, after he 
had asked me all sorts of questions — 
where I came from ; how I happened to be 
here; and even to " explain Mr. Wilson," 
I responded by asking him what he did in 
civil life. 

He was leaning against the high mantel, 
saying a wood fire was delicious. He 
smiled down on me and replied: " Noth- 
ing." 

" Enfinf " I said to myself. " Here he 

[ 280 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

is — ' the ' fils de famille ' for whom I have 
been looking." So I smiled back and asked 
him, in that case, if it were not too indis- 
creet — what he did to kill time ? 

" Well," he said, " I have a very pretty, 
altogether charming wife, and I have 
three little children. I live part of the 
time in Paris, and part of the time at 
Cannes, and I manage to keep busy." 

It seemed becoming for me to say " Beg 
pardon and thank you," and he bowed 
and smiled an "il n'y a pas de quoi," 
thanked me for a pleasant afternoon — an 
" unusual kind of pleasure," he added, 
" for a soldier in these times," and went 
away. 

It was only when I saw him going that 
it occurred to me that I ought to have 
offered him tea — but you know the worth 
of " esprit d'escalier." 

Naturally I was curious about him, so 
the next time I saw the Canadian I asked 
him who he was. " Oh," he replied, " he 
is a nice chap; he is a noble, a vicomte 
— a millionaire." 

So you see I have found the type — not 
quite in the infantry ranks, but almost, and 
if I found one there must be plenty more. 
It consoled me in these days when one 
hears so often cries against " les em- 
bus que s" 

[ 281 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I began to think there was every type in 
the world in this famous 118th, and I was 
not far from wrong. 

The very next day I got the most deli- 
cious type of all — the French-American 
— very French to look at, but with New 
York stamped all over him — especially 
his speech. Of all these boys, this is the 
one I wish you could see. 

Like all the rest of the English-speaking 
Frenchmen — the Canadian excepted — 
he brought a comrade to hear him talk 
to the lady in English. I really must try 
to give you a graphic idea of that con- 
versation. 

When I opened the door for him, he 
stared at me, and then he threw up both 
hands and simply shouted, " My God, it 
is true ! My God, it is an American ! ! " 

Then he thrust out his hand and gave 
me a hearty shake, simply yelling, " My 
God, lady, I 'm glad to see you. My God, 
lady, the sight is good for sore eyes." 

Then he turned to his comrade and ex- 
plained, " J'ai dit a la dame, ' Mon Dieu, 
Madame/ " etc., and in the same breath 
he turned back to me and continued : 

" My God, lady, when I saw them Stars 
and Stripes floating out there, I said to 
my comrade, ' If there is an American man 
or an American lady here, my God, I am 

[ 282 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

going to look at them,' and my God, lady, 
I 'm glad I did. Well, how do you do, 
anyway? " 

I told him that I was very well, and 
asked him if he would n't like to come in. 

" My God, lady, you bet your life I do," 
and he shook my hand again, and came in, 
remarking, " I 'm an American myself — 
from New York — great city, New York 
— can't be beat. I wish all my comrades 
could see Broadway — that would amaze 
them," and then he turned to his com- 
panion to explain, " J'ai dit a Madame que 
je voudrais bien que tous les copains pou- 
vaient voir Broadway — c'est la plus belle 
rue de New York — Us seront Spates — 
tous," and he turned to me to ask " N'est- 
ce pas, Madame?" 

I laughed. I had to. I had a vivid pic- 
ture of his comrades seeing New York for 
the first time — you know it takes time to 
get used to the Great White Way, and I 
remembered the last distinguished French- 
man whom the propaganda took on to the 
great thoroughfare, and who, at the first 
sight and sound and feel of it, wanted to 
lay his head up against Times Square and 
sob like a baby with fright and amazement. 
This was one of those flash thoughts. My 
caller did not give me time for more than 
that, for he began to cross-examine me — 

[ 283 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

he wanted to know where I lived in 
America. 

It did not seem worth while to tell him 
I did not live there, so I said " Boston," 
and he declared it a " nice, pretty slow 
town," he knew it, and, of course, he 
added, " But my God, lady, give me New 
York every time. I 've lived there sixteen 
years — got a nice little wife there — 
here 's her picture — and see here, this is 
my name," and he laid an envelope before 
me with a New York postmark. 

" Well," I said, " if you are an Ameri- 
can citizen, what are you doing here, in a 
French uniform? The States are not in 
the war." 

His eyes simply snapped. 

" My God, lady, I 'm a Frenchman just 
the same. My God, lady, you don't think 
I 'd see France attacked by Germany and 
not take a hand in the fight, do you? Not 
on your life! " 

Here is your naturalization business 
again. 

I could not help laughing, but I ventured 
to ask: " Well, my lad, what would you 
have done if it had been France and the 
States? " He curled his lip, and brushed 
the question aside with: 

" My God, lady ! Don't be stupid. That 
could never be, never, on your life." 

[ 284 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

I asked him, when I got a chance to 
put in a word, what he did in New York, 
and he told me he was a chauffeur, and 
that he had a sister who lived " on River- 
side Drive, up by 76th Street," but I did 
not ask him in what capacity, for before 
I could, he launched into an enthusiastic 
description of Riverside Drive, and imme- 
diately put it all into French for the benefit 
of his copain, who stood by with his mouth 
open in amazement at the spirited English 
of his friend. 

When he went away, he shook me again 
violently by the hand, exclaiming: " Well, 
lady, of course you '11 soon be going back 
to the States. So shall I. I can't live 
away from New York. No one ever could 
who had lived there. Great country the 
States. I 'm a voter — I 'm a Democrat 
— always vote the Democratic ticket — 
voted for Wilson. Well, goodbye, lady." 

As he shook me by the hand again, it 
seemed suddenly to occur to him that he 
had forgotten something. He struck a 
blow on his forehead with his fist, and 
cried: " My God, lady, did I understand 
that you have been here ever since the 
war began? Then you were here during 
the battle out there? My God, lady, I 'm 
an American, too, and my God, lady, I 'm 
proud of you! I am indeed." And he 

[ 285 j 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

went off down the road, and I heard him 
explaining to his companion " T ai dit a 
madame," etc. 

I don't think any comment is necessary 
on what Broadway does to the French lad 
of the people. 

Last night I saw one of the most beau- 
tiful sights that I have ever seen. For 
several evenings I have been hearing ar- 
tillery practice of some sort, but I paid 
no attention to it. We have no difficulty 
in distinguishing the far-off guns at Sois- 
sons and Rheims, which announce an at- 
tack, from the more audible, but quite 
different, sound of the tir d y exercice. But 
last night they sounded so very near — 
almost as if in the garden — that, at about 
nine, when I was closing up the house, I 
stepped out on to the terrace to listen. 
It was a very dark night, quite black. At 
first I thought they were in the direction 
of Quincy, and then I discovered, once I 
was listening carefully, that they were in 
the direction of the river. I went round to 
the north side of the house, and I saw the 
most wonderful display — more beautiful 
than any fireworks I had ever seen. The 
artillery was experimenting with signal 
lights, and firing colored fusees volantes. 
I had read about them, but never seen one. 
As near as I could make out, the artillery 
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On the Edge of the War Zone 

was on top of the hill of Monthyon — 
where we saw the battle of the Marne 
begin, — and the line they were observing 
was the Iles-les-Villenoy, in the river right 
at the west of us. When I first saw the 
exercises, there were half a dozen lovely 
red and green lights hanging motionless in 
the sky. I could hear the heavy detona- 
tion of the cannon or gun, or whatever 
they use to throw them, and then see the 
long arc of light like a chain of gold, which 
marked the course of the fusee, until it 
burst into color at the end. I wrapped 
myself up, took my field-glasses, and 
stayed out an hour watching the scene, and 
trying to imagine what exactly the same 
thing, so far as mere beauty went, meant 
to the men at the front. 

In the morning I found that everyone 
else had heard the guns, but no one had 
seen anything, because, as it happens, it was 
from my lawn only that both Monthyon 
and the Iles-les-Villenoy could be seen. 



[ 287 ] 



XXXVII 

March 19, 191 7 

Such a week of excitement as we have 
had. But it has been uplifting excitement. 
I feel as if I had never had an ache or 
a pain, and Time and Age were not. 
What with the English advance, the Rus- 
sian Revolution, and Zeppelins tumbling 
out of the heavens, every day has been just 
a little more thrilling than the day before. 

I wonder now how " Willie," — as we 
used to call him in the days when he was 
considered a joke, — feels over his latest 
great success — the democratic conversion, 
or I suppose I should, to be correct, say 
the conversion to democracy, of all Rus- 
sia? It must be a queer sensation to set 
out to accomplish one thing, and to achieve 
its exact reverse. 

Yesterday — it was Sunday — just 
capped the week of excitement. It was 
the third beautiful day in the week, — full 
of sunshine, air clear, sky blue. 

In the morning, the soldiers began to 
drop in, to bring back books and get more, 
to talk a little politics, for even the destruc- 
tion of the Zeppelin at Compiegne, and 

[ 288 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

the news that the English were at Ba- 
paume, was a bit damped by the untimely 
fall of Briand. 

The boys all looked in prime condition, 
and they all had new uniforms, even new 
caps and boots. The Canadian, who usu- 
ally comes alone, had personally conducted 
three of his comrades, whom he formally 
introduced, and, as I led the way into the 
library, I remarked, " Mais, comme nous 
sommes chic aujourd'hui," and they all 
laughed, and explained that it was Sunday 
and they were dressed for a formal call. 
If any of them guessed that the new equip- 
ment meant anything they made no sign. I 
imagine they did not suspect any more than 
I did, for they all went down the hill to 
lunch, each with a book under his arm. 
Yet four hours later they were preparing 
to advance. 

It was exactly four in the afternoon that 
news came that the French had pierced the 
line at Soissons — just in front of us — 
and that Noyon had been retaken — that 
the cavalry were a cheval (that means that 
the 23d Dragoons have advanced in pur- 
suit) — and, only a quarter of an hour 
after we got the news, the assemblage gen- 
eral was sounded, and the 11 8th ordered 
sac au dos at half past six. 

For half an hour there was a rush up 

[ 289 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

the hill — boys bringing me back my 
books, coming to shake hands and present 
me with little souvenirs, and bring the news 
that the camions were coming — which 
meant that the 1 18th were going right into 
action again. When a regiment starts in 
such a hurry that it must take a direct 
line, and cannot bother with railroads, the 
boys know what that means. 

I know you '11 ask me how they took 
the order, so I tell you without waiting. 
I saw a few pale faces — but it was only 
for a moment. A group of them stood 
in front of me in the library. I had just 
received from the front, by post, the silk 
parachute of a fusee volante, on which was 
written: "A Miss Mildred Aldrich Ra- 
masse stir le champ de bataille a 20 metres 
des lignes Bodies. Souvenir de la pa- 
trouille de Fevrier 22, 191 7," and the 
signature of the Aspirant, and that was 
the only way I knew he had probably been 
on a dangerous mission. 

It was the first time that I had ever 
seen one any nearer than in the air, during 
the exercises by night of which I wrote 
you, and one of the boys was explaining 
it, and its action, and use, and everyone 
but me was laughing at the graphic demon- 
stration. I don't know why I did n't laugh. 
Usually I laugh more than anyone else. 
[ 290 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Sometimes I think that I have laughed 
more in the last two years than in all 
the rest of my life. The demonstrator 
looked at me, and asked why I was so 
grave. I replied that I did not know — 
perhaps in surprise that they were so gay. 

He understood at once. Quite simply 
he said: " Well, my dear madame, we must 
be gay. What would we do otherwise? 
If we thought too often of the comrades 
who are gone, if we remembered too often 
that we risked our skins every day, the 
army would be demoralized. I rarely 
think of these things except just after an 
attack. Then I draw a deep breath, look 
up at the sky, and I laugh, as I say to my 
soul, ' Well, it was not to be this time, 
perhaps it never will be.' Life is dear to 
each of us, in his own way, and for his own 
reasons. Luckily it is not so dear to any 
of us as France or honor." 

I turned away and looked out of the 
window a moment — I could not trust my- 
self, — and the next minute they were all 
shaking hands, and were off down the road 
to get ready. 

The loaded camions began to move just 
after dark. No one knows the destina- 
tion, but judging by the direction, they 
were heading for Soissons. They were 
moving all night, and the first thing I heard 

[ 291 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

this morning was the bugle in the direction 
of Quincy, and the news came at breakfast 
time that the 65th Regiment — the last of 
the big fighting regiments to go into ac- 
tion at Verdun, and the last to leave, was 
marching in. The girl from the butcher's 
brought the news, and " Oh, madame," 
she added, " the Americans are with 
them." 

" The what? " I exclaimed. 

" A big American ambulance corps — 
any number of ambulance automobiles, and 
they have put their tents up on the com- 
mon at Quincy." 

You can imagine how excited I was. I 
sent someone over to Quincy at once to 
see if it was true, and word came back 
that Captain Norton's American Corps 
Sanitaire — forty men who have been with 
this same division, the 31st Corps — for 
many months — had arrived from Verdun 
with the 65th Regiment, and was to follow 
it into action when it advanced again. 

This time the cantonnement does not 
come up to Huiry — only to the foot of 
the hill at Voisins. 

Of course I have not seen our boys yet, 
but I probably shall in a few days. 



[ 292 ] 



XXXVIII 

March 28, 19 1 7 

Well, all quiet on the hilltop again — 
all the soldiers gone — no sign of more 
coming for the present. We are all nerv- 
ously watching the advance, but controlling 
our nerves. The German retreat and the 
organized destruction which accompanies 
it just strikes one dumb. Of course we all 
know it is a move meant to break the back 
of the great offensive, and though we knew, 
too, that the Allied commanders were pre- 
pared for it, it does make you shiver to 
get a letter from the front telling you that 
a certain regiment advanced at a certain 
point thirty kilometres, without seeing a 
Boche. 

As soon as I began to read the account 
of the destruction, I had a sudden illumi- 
nating realization of the meaning of some- 
thing I saw from the car window the last 
time I came out from Paris. Perhaps I 
did not tell you that I was up there for a 
few days the first of the month? 

Of course you don't need to be told that 
there has been a tremendous amount of 
work done on the eastern road all through 

[ 293 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

the war. Extra tracks have been laid all 
the way between Paris and Chelles, the 
outer line of defenses of the city — and at 
the stations between Gagny and Chelles 
the sidings extend so far on the western 
side of the tracks as to almost reach out 
of sight. For a long time the work was 
done by soldiers, but when I went up to 
Paris, four weeks ago, the work was being 
done by Annamites in their saffron-colored 
clothes and queer turbans, and I found the 
same little people cleaning the streets in 
Paris. But the surprising thing was the 
work that was accomplished in the few 
days that I was in Paris. I came back on 
March 13, and I was amazed to see all 
those miles and miles of sidings filled with 
trucks piled with wood, with great posts, 
with planks, with steel rails, and what 
looked the material to build a big city or 
two. I did not wonder when I saw them 
that we could not get coal, or other neces- 
sities of life, but it was not until I read 
of the very German-like idea of defending 
one's self on the property of other people 
that I realized what all that material 
meant, and that the Allies were prepared 
for even this tragic and Boche-like move. 
I began to get little cards and letters 
back from the 11 8th on the twenty-third. 
The first said simply: 

[ 294 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Dear Madame: 

Here we are — arrived last night just 
behind the line, — with our eyes strained 
towards the front, ready to bound for- 
ward and join in the pursuit. 

Of course I have seen the Americans — 
a doctor from Schenectady and forty men, 
almost all youngsters in their early twen- 
ties. In fact twenty-two seems to be the 
popular age. There are boys from Har- 
vard, boys from Yale, New England boys, 
Virginia boys, boys from Tennessee, from 
Kentucky, from Louisiana, and American 
boys from Oxford. It is a first-line am- 
bulance corps, — the boys who drive their 
little Ford ambulances right down to the 
battlefields and receive the wounded from 
the brancardiers, and who have seen the 
worst of Verdun, and endured the priva- 
tions and the cold with the army. 

When a Virginia man told me that he 
had not taken cold this winter, and showed 
me his little tent on the common, where, 
from choice, he is still sleeping under can- 
vas, because he " likes it," I could easily 
believe him. Do you know, — it is absurd 
— I have not had a cold this winter, either ? 
I, who used to have one tonsilitis per win- 
ter, two bronchitis, half a dozen colds in 
my head, and occasionally a mild specimen 
of grip. This is some record when you 

[ 295 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

consider that since my coal gave out in 
February we have had some pretty cold 
weather, and that I have only had imi- 
tation fires, which cheer the imagination 
by way of the eyes without warming the at- 
mosphere. I could fill a book with stories 
of " how I made fires in war time," but 
I spare you because I have more interest- 
ing things to tell you. 

On the twenty-sixth we were informed 
that we were to have the 65th Regiment 
cantoned on the hill for a day and a night. 
They were to move along a bit to make 
room for the 35th for a few days. It was 
going to be pretty close quarters for one 
night, and the adjutant who arranged the 
cantonnement was rather put to it to house 
his men. The Captain was to be in my 
house, and I was asked, if, for two days 

— perhaps less — I could have an officers' 
kitchen in the house and let them have a 
place to eat. Well, — there the house was 

— they were welcome to it. So that was 
arranged, and I put a mattress on the floor 
in the atelier for the Captain's cook. 

We had hardly got that over when the 
adjutant came back to look over the 
ground again, and see if it were not pos- 
sible to canton a demi-section in the 
granges. I went out with him to show 
him what there was — a grange on the 
[ 296 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

south side, with a loft, which has already 
had to be braced up with posts, and which 
I believe to be dangerous. He examined 
it, and agreed: a grange on the north side, 
used for coal, wood, and garden stuff, with 
a loft above in fair condition, but only 
accessible by ladder from the outside. He 
put up the ladder, climbed it, unlocked the 
door, examined it, and decided that it 
would do, unless they could find something 
better. 

So soldiers came in the afternoon and 
swept it out, and brought the straw in 
which they were to sleep, and that was 
arranged. 

It was about seven the next morning 
when they began to arrive. I heard the 
tramp of their feet in the road, as they 
marched, in sections, to their various can- 
tonnements. I put a clean cap over my 
tousled hair, slipped into a wadded gown 
and was ready just as I heard the " Halte," 
which said that my section had arrived. I 
heard two growly sounds which I took to 
be " A droite, mar chef " — and by the time 
I got the window open to welcome my sec- 
tion I looked down into an Indian file of 
smiling bronzed faces, as they marched 
along the terrace, knapsacks and guns on 
their backs, and began mounting the 
ladder. 

[ 297 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Soon after, the Captain's cook arrived 
with his market baskets and took posses- 
sion of the kitchen, and he was followed by 
orderlies and the kits, and by the officer 
who was to be the Captain's table com- 
panion. 

As Amelie had half a section cantoned 
in her courtyard she was busy there, and 
I simply showed the cook where things 
were, gave him table cloths and napkins, 
and left him to follow his own sweet will, 
free to help himself to anything he needed. 
If you remember what I told you about my 
house when I took it, you can guess how 
small I had to make myself. 

I can tell you one thing — on the testi- 
mony of Amelie — the officers eat well. 
But they pay for it themselves, so that is 
all right. The cook was never idle a min- 
ute while he was in the house. I heard him 
going up to bed, in his felt shoes, at ten 
o'clock — Amelie said he left the kitchen 
scrupulously clean — and I heard the 
kitchen alarm clock, which he carried with 
him, going off at half past five in the 
morning. 

I had asked the Captain when the regi- 
ment was to advance, and he said probably 
the next morning, but that the order had 
not come. Twice while I was at dinner in 
the breakfast room, I heard an orderly 

[ 298 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

come in with despatches, but it was not 
until nine o'clock that the order " sac au 
dos " at half past ten the next morning — 
that was yesterday — was official, and it 
was not until nine in the morning that they 
knew that they were leaving in camions — 
which meant that they were really starting 
in the pursuit, and the American division 
was to follow them. 

The officers had a great breakfast just 
after nine — half a dozen courses. As 
they did not know when, if ever, they would 
sit down to a real meal at a table again 
they made their possibly last one a feast. 
As they began just after nine and had to 
be on the road at half past ten I don't need 
to tell you that the cook had no time to 
clear up after himself. He had just time 
— with his mouth full of food — to throw 
his apron on the floor, snatch up his gun 
and his knapsack and buckle himself into 
shape as he sprinted up the hill to overtake 
his company. 

As for me — I threw on a cape and 
went across the road to the field, where I 
could see the Grande Route, and the chemin 
Madame leading to it. All along the 
route nationale, as far as I could see with 
my field-glass, stood the grey camions. On 
the chemin Madame the regiment was 
waiting. They had stacked their guns and, 

[ 299 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

in groups, with cigarettes between their 
lips, they chatted quietly, as they waited. 
Here and there a bicyclist was sprinting 
with orders. 

Suddenly a whistle sounded. There was 
a rattle of arms as the men unstacked their 
guns and fell into line, then hundreds of 
hobnailed boots marked time on the hard 
road, and the 65th swung along to the 
waiting camions, over the same route I 
had seen Captain Simpson and the York- 
shire boys take, just before sundown, on 
that hot September day in 1914. 

As I stood watching them all the stu- 
pendousness of the times rushed over me 
that you and I, who have rubbed our noses 
on historical monuments so often, have 
chased after emotions on the scenes of past 
heroism, and applauded mock heroics 
across the footlights, should be living in 
days like these, days in which heroism is 
the common act of every hour. I cannot 
help wondering what the future genera- 
tions are going to say of it all; how far- 
off times are going to judge us; what is 
going to stand out in the strong limelight 
of history ? I know what I think, but that 
does not help yet. 

Do you know that I had a letter from 
Paris this week which said: " I was look- 
ing over your letters written while we were 

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On the Edge of the War Zone 

tied up in London, in August, 19 14, and 
was amused to find that in one of them you 
had written ' the annoying thing is, that, 
after this is over, Germany will console 
herself with the reflection that it took the 
world to beat her.' " It is coming truer 
than I believed in those days, — and then 
I went back to dishwashing. 

You never saw such a looking kitchen as 
I found. Leon, the officers' cook — a 
pastry cook before he was a soldier — was 
a nice, kindly, hard-working chap, but he 
lacked the quality dear to all good house- 
keepers — he had never learned to clean 
up after himself as he went along. He 
had used every cooking utensil in the 
house, and such a pile of plates and glasses ! 
It took Amelie and me until two o'clock to 
clean up after him, and when it was done 
I felt that I never wanted to see food again 
as long as I lived. Of course we did not 
mind, but Amelie had to say, every now 
and then, " Vive V armee! " just to keep 
her spirits up. Anyway it was consoling to 
know that they have more to eat than we 
do. 

The American corps had to leave one 
of their boys behind in our ambulance, very 
ill with neuritis — that is to say, painfully 
ill. As the boys of the American corps are 
ranked by the French army as officers this 

[ 301 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

case is doubly interesting to the person- 
nel of our modest hospital. First he is 
an American — a tall young Southerner 
from Tennessee. They never knew an 
American before. Second, he is not only 
an honorary officer serving France, he is 
really a lieutenant in the officers' reserve 
corps of his own State, and our little am- 
bulance has never sheltered an officer 
before. 

The nurses and the sisters are falling 
over one another to take care of him — at 
least, as I always find one or two of them 
sitting by his bed whenever I go to see him, 
I imagine they are. 

The amusing thing is that he says he 
can't understand or speak French, and 
swears that the only words he knows are : 

Qui, oui, oui, 
Non, non, non f 

Si, si, si, 
Et voila, 

Mercil 

which he sings, in his musical southern 
voice, to the delight of his admiring nurses. 
All the same, whenever it is necessary 
for an interpreter to explain something im- 
portant to him, I find that he has usually 
got the hang of it already, so I 've my 
doubts if he has as little French as he pre- 
[ 302 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

tends. One thing is sure his discharge will 
leave a big void in the daily life of the 
ambulance. 

This is growing into a long letter — in 
the quiet that has settled on us I seem to 
have plenty of time — and the mood — 
so, before I close, I must say something in 
reply to your sad sentence in your last 
letter — the reply to mine of December 
regarding our first big cantonnement. 
You say " Oh ! the pity of this terrible 
sacrifice of the youth of the world! ! Why 
are n't the middle-aged sent first — the 
men who have partly lived their lives, who 
leave children to continue the race? " Ah, 
dear old girl — you are indeed too far off 
to understand such a war as this. Few 
men of even forty can stand the life. Only 
the young can bear the strain. They not 
only bear it, they thrive on it, and, such of 
them as survive the actual battles, will 
come out of it in wonderful physical trim. 

Of course there are a thousand sides to 
the question. There are hospitals full of 
the tuberculous and others with like mala- 
dies, but those things existed before the 
war, only less attention was paid to them. 
It is also a serious question — getting 
more serious the longer the war goes on 
— as to how all these men will settle into 
civil life again — how many will stand sed- 

[ 303 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

entary pursuits after years in the open, 
and how they will settle back into the in- 
justices of class distinctions after years of 
the equality of the same duty — fighting 
for their country. Still if the victory is 
decisive, and the army is satisfied with the 
peace conditions, I imagine all those things 
will settle themselves. 

Well, Congress meets on Monday. 
There is no doubt in anyone's mind of the 
final decision. I only hope it won't drag 
too long. I have taken my flags down 
just to have the pleasure of putting them 
up again. 

I had this letter closed when I got my 
first direct news from the front since the 
advance. 

Do you remember how amused I was 
when I saw the Aspirant equipped for his 
march in January? I was told afterward 
that my idea of a light equipment for the 
cavalry in battle was " theoretically beau- 
tiful," but in such a war as this absolutely 
impracticable. Well I hear today that 
when the cavalry advanced it advanced in 
a " theoretically beautiful " manner. It 
seems that the order was unexpected. It 
caught the cavalry in the saddle during a 
manoeuvre, and, just as they were, they 
wheeled into line and flew off in pursuit of 

[ 304 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

the Boches. They had nothing but what 
was on their backs — and ammunition, of 
course. The result was that they had 
forty-eight hours of real suffering. It was 
harder on the officers than on the men, and 
hardest of all on the horses. All the sol- 
diers always have a bidon with something 
in it to drink, and almost invariably they 
have a bite or so in their sacks. No 
officer ever has anything on him, and 
none of them carries a bidon except on a 
march. For forty-eight hours in the chase 
they suffered from hunger, and, what was 
worse still, from thirst As the weather 
was nasty and they were without shelters 
of any kind — not even tents — they 
tasted all the hardships of war. This must 
comfort the foot soldiers, who are eter- 
nally grumbling at the cavalry. However, 
the officer who brought back the news says 
the men bore it with philosophical gaiety, 
even those who on the last day had nothing 
as well as those who in forty-eight hours 
had a quarter of a biscuit. The horses 
were not so philosophical — some of them 
just lay down and died, poor beasts. I 
assure you I shall never laugh again at a 
cavalryman's " battle array." 



[ 305 ] 



XXXIX 

April 8, 191 7 

The sun shines, and my heart is high. 
This is a great day. The Stars and Stripes 
are flying at my gate, and they are flying 
over all France. What is more they will 
soon be flying — if they are not already 
— over Westminster, for the first time in 
history. The mighty, unruly child, who 
never could quite forgive the parent it de- 
fied, and never has been wholly pardoned, 
is to come back to the family table, if only 
long enough to settle the future manners 
of the nations about the board, put in, 
I suppose, a few " don'ts," like " don't 
grab"; "don't take a bigger mouthful 
than you can becomingly chew"; "don't 
jab your knife into your neighbor — it is 
not for that purpose"; " don't eat out of 
your neighbor's plate — you have one of 
your own," — in fact " Thou shalt not — 
even though thou art a Kaiser — take the 
name of the Lord thy God in vain " ; 
"thou shalt not steal"; "thou shalt not 
kill "; " thou shalt not covet," and so on. 
Trite, I know, but in thousands of years 
we have not improved on it. 

[ 306 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

So the Stars and Stripes are flying over 
France to greet the long delayed and ar- 
dently awaited, long ago inevitable decla- 
ration which puts the States shoulder to 
shoulder with the other great nations in 
the Defence of the Rights of Man, the 
Sacredness of Property, the Honor of Hu- 
manity, and the news has been received 
with such enthusiasm as has not been seen 
in France since war broke over it. Judg- 
ing by the cables the same enthusiasm 
which has set the air throbbing here is 
mounting to the skies on your side of the 
ocean. We are a strangely lucky nation — 
we are the first to go into the great fight 
to the shouts of the populace; to be re- 
ceived like a star performer, with " thun- 
ders of applause." 

Well — 

" God 's in his heaven, 
All 's right with the world." — 

and — - we are no longer in the war zone. 
As soon as a few formalities are filled, 
and I can get a carte d'identite, I shall be 
once more free to circulate. After sixteen 
months of a situation but one step removed 
from being interned, it will be good to be 
able to move about — even if I don't 
want to. 

To give you some idea how the men at 

[ 307 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

the front welcome the news, here is a letter 
which has just come, — written beforej 
Congress had voted, but when everyone 
was sure of the final decision. 



At the Front, April 4, 191 7 
Dear Madame: 

It has been a long time since I sent you 
my news. The neglect has not been my 
fault, but due to the exceptional circum- 
stances of the war. 

At last we have advanced, and this time 
as real cavalry. We have had the satis- 
faction of pursuing the Boches — keeping 
on their flying heels until we drove them 
into St. Quentin. From the 18th to the 
28th of March the war became once more 
a battle in the open, which was a great 
relief to the soldiers and permitted them 
to once more demonstrate their real mili- 
tary qualities. I lived through a dozen 
days filled to overflowing with emotions — 
sorrow, joy, enthusiasm. At last I have 
really known what war is — with all its 
misery and all its beauty. What joy it was 
for us of the cavalry to pass over the 
trenches and fly across the plains in the 
pursuit of the Germans! The first few 
days everything went off wonderfully. 
The Boches fled before us, not daring to 

[ 308 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

turn and face us. But our advance was so 
rapid, our impetuosity such, that, long be- 
fore they expected us, we overtook the 
main body of the enemy. They were vis- 
ibly amazed at being caught before they 
could cross the canal at St. Quentin, as 
was their plan, and they were obliged to 
turn and attempt to check our advance, in 
order to gain sufficient time to permit their 
artillery to cross the canal and escape com- 
plete disaster. 

It was there that we fought, forcing 
them across the canal to entrench them- 
selves hastily in unprepared positions, 
from which, at the hour I write, our won- 
derful infantry and our heavy artillery, 
in collaboration with the British, are dis- 
lodging them. 

Alas ! The battles were costly, and 
many of our comrades paid with their lives 
for our audacious advance. Be sure that 
we avenged them, and cruel as are our 
losses they were not in vain. They are 
more than compensated by the results of 
the sacrifice — the strip of our native soil 
snatched from the enemy. They died like 
heroes, and for a noble cause. 

Since then we have been resting, but 
waiting impatiently to advance and pursue 
them again, until we can finally push them 
over their own frontier. 

[ 309 ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

Today's paper brings us great and com- 
forting news. At last, dear madame ! At 
last your marvellous country is going to 
march beside us in this terrible war. With 
a full heart I present to you my heartiest 
congratulations. At last Wilson under- 
stands, and the American people — so 
noble, and always so generous — will no 
longer hesitate to support us with all their 
resources. How wonderfully this is going 
to aid us to obtain the decisive victory 
we must have, and perhaps to shorten the 
war. 

Here, in the army, the joy is tremen- 
dous at the idea that we have behind us 
the support of a nation so great, and all 
our admiration, all our gratitude goes out 
to your compatriots, to the citizens of the 
great Republic, which is going to enter 
voluntarily into this Holy War, and so 
bravely expose itself to its known horrors. 

Bravo! et vivent les Etats-Unisf 

My greetings to Amelie and Papa : a 
caress for Khaki and Didine, and a pat 
for Dick. 

Receive, madame, the assurance of my 
most respectful homage. 

A B . 

I am feeling today as if it were no 
matter that the winter had been so hard; 

[ 3io ] 



On the Edge of the War Zone 

that we have no fuel but twigs; that the 
winter wheat was frozen; that we have 
eaten part of our seed potatoes and that 
another part of them was frost-bitten; 
that butter is a dollar a pound (and none 
to be had, even at that price, for days at 
a time) ; that wood alcohol is sixty-five 
cents a litre, and so on and so forth. I 
even feel that it is not important that this 
war came, since it could not be escaped, 
and that what alone is important is — that 
the major part of the peoples of the world 
are standing upright on their feet, lifting 
their arms with a great shout for Liberty, 
Justice, and Honor; that a war of brute 
force for conquest has defeated itself, and 
set free those who were to have been its 
victims. It is not, I know, today or to- 
morrow that it will all end; it is not next 
year, or in many years, that poor Poland's 
three mutilated parts can be joined and 
healed into harmony; and oh! how long 
it is going to be before all the sorrow and 
hatred that Germany has brought on the 
world can be either comforted or forgot- 
ten ! But at least we are sure now of the 
course the treatment is going to take — 
so the sun shines and my heart is high, and 
I do believe that though joy may lead no- 
where, sorrow is never in vain. 

[ 311 ] 



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